Punishment
by
Anne Holt

One afternoon after school, nine-year-old Emilie doesn't come home.After a frantic search, her father finds her backpack in a deserted alley.it is the
backpack her deceased mother had given her a month before she died.Emilie would never leave that backpack behind voluntarily.A week later, a five-year-old
boy goes missing.And then another.Meanwhile, Johanna Vik, a former FBI profiler with a troubled past and a difficult young daughter, is buried in crimes
of the past, trying to overturn a decades-old false murder conviction. Police Commissioner Stubo has personal reasons for wanting to solve the case of
the missing children: not long ago he lost his wife and only daughter in a terrible accident, and now all he has left is his young grandson. But when he
tries to enlist Johanna to help him crack the case, she's resistant. However, when the bodies of the missing children start appearing in their family's
homes with notes that say, "You got what you deserved," Johanna decides to help Stubo.While the rest of the Norwegian media is out hunting pedophiles,Stubo
and Johanna manage to uncover a complex story of revenge. A singularly clever crime story combined with a serious discussion of children and our responsibilities
towards them, What is Mine is the first installment in the the Stubo/Johanna crime series. Stubo and Johanna from one of the most original crime-solving
teams ever. 

Anne Holt, Scandinavia's leading female crime author,
worked as a news reporter for the Norwegian Broadcasting
Corporation while attending Law School, and following her
graduation went on to become a TV journalist both as a TVnews
editor and anchor. She later joined the Norwegian
Police Force as a police attorney prior to taking her bar
exam, then turned to journalism for a few years before she
started to practise law, setting up her own law firm. From
1996 to 1997 she served as Norwegian Minister of Justice.
Since becoming a writer she has sold four million copies of
her books in Europe. Born in Larvik, Norway, Anne Holt
lived in Dallas and Maine in the States and now lives with
her wife and daughter in Oslo.

Translated by Kari Dickson

sphere

First published in Norway in 2001 by Cappelen
First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Time Warner Books
This paperback edition published in 2007 by Sphere
Reprinted 2007

Copyright © Anne Flolt 2001
Translation © Kari Dickson 2006

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those
clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-7515-3714-7

Papers used by Sphere are natural, recyclable products made from
wood grown in sustainable forests and certified in accordance with
the rules of the Forest Stewardship Council.

Typeset in Caslon by M Rules
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic
Paper supplied by Hellefoss AS, Norway

Sphere
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Brettenham House
Lancaster Place
London WC2E 7EN


The ceiling was blue. The man in the shop claimed that the
dark colour would make the room seem smaller. He was
wrong. Instead the ceiling was lifted, it nearly disappeared.
That's what I wanted myself when I was little: a dark night
sky with stars and a small crescent moon over the window.
But Granny chose for me then. Granny and Mum, a boy's
room in yellow and white.
Happiness is something I can barely remember, like a
light touch in a group of strangers, gone before you 'we had a
chance to turn round. When the room was finished and it
was only two days until he was going to come, I was
satisfied. Happiness is a childish thing and I am, after all,
thirty-four. But naturally I was happy. I was looking
forward to it.
The room was ready. There was a little boy sitting on the
moon. With blond hair, a fishing rod made from bamboo
with string and afloat and hook at the end: a star. A drop
of gold had dribbled down towards the window, as if the
Heavens were melting.
My son was finally going to come.

1


She was walking home from school. It was nearly
National Day. It would be the first 17 May without
Mummy. Her national costume was too short. Mummy had
already let the hem down twice.
Last night, Emilie had been woken by a bad dream.
Daddy was fast asleep; she could hear him snoring gently
through the wall as she held her national costume up
against her body. The red border had crept up to her knees.
She was growing too fast. Daddy often said, 'You're growing
as fast as a weed, love.' Emilie stroked the woollen material
with her hand and tried to shrink at the knees and neck.
Gran was in the habit of saying, 'It's not surprising the child
is shooting up, Grete was always a beanpole.'
Emilie's shoulders and thighs ached from being
hunched the whole time. It was Mummy's fault she was so
tall. The red hem wouldn't reach further than her knees.
Maybe she could ask for a new dress.
Her schoolbag was heavy. She'd picked a bunch of coltsfoot.
It was so big that Daddy would have to find a vase.
The stalks were long too, not like when she was little and
only picked the flowers, which then had to bob about in an
eggcup.
She didn't like walking alone. But Marte and Silje had
been collected by Marte's mum. They didn't say where
they were going. They just waved at her through the rear
window of the car.
The flowers needed water. Some had already started to
wilt over her fingers. Emilie tried not to clutch the bunch
too hard. A flower fell to the ground and she bent down to
pick it up.
'Are you called Emilie?'
The man smiled. Emilie looked at him. There was no
one else to be seen here on the small path between two
busy roads, a track that cut ten minutes off the walk home. She mumbled incoherently and backed away.
'Emilie Selbu? That's your name, isn't it?'
Never talk to strangers. Never go with anyone you don't
know. Be polite to grown-ups.
'Yes,' she whispered, and tried to slip past.
Her shoe, her new trainer with the pink strips, sank into
the mud and dead leaves. Emilie nearly lost her balance.
The man caught her by the arm. Then he put something
over her face.
An hour and a half later, Emilie Selbu was reported missing
to the police.
'we never managed to let go of this case. Perhaps it's my
.bad conscience. But then again, I was a newly qualified
lawyer at a time when young mothers were expected to stay
at home. There wasn't much I could do or say.'
Her smile gave the impression that she wanted to be left
alone. They'd been talking for nearly two hours. The
woman in the bed gasped for breath and was obviously
bothered by the strong sunlight. Her fingers clutched at the
duvet cover.
'I'm only seventy,' she wheezed. 'But I feel like an old
woman. Please forgive me.'
Johanne Vik stood up and closed the curtains. She hesitated,
not turning round.
'Better?' she asked after a while.
The old woman closed her eyes.
"I wrote everything down,' she said. 'Three years ago.
When I retired and thought I would have
She fluttered a thin hand.
' . . . plenty of time.'
Johanne Vik stared at the folder lying on the bedside
table beside a pile of books. The old woman nodded
weakly.
'Take it. There's not much I can do now. I don't even
know if the man is still alive. If he is, he'd be . . . sixty-five.
Or something like that.'
She closed her eyes again. Her head slipped slowly to
one side. Her mouth opened a fraction and as Johanne bent
down to pick up the red folder, she caught the smell of sick
breath. She put the papers in her bag quietly and tiptoed
towards the door.
'One last thing.'
She jumped and turned back towards the old woman.
'People ask how I can be so sure. Some think it's just an idee fixe of an old woman who's of no use to anyone any
more. I've done nothing about it for so many years . . .
When you've read through it all, I would be grateful to
know
She coughed weakly. Her eyes slid shut. There was

silence.
'Know what?'
Johanne whispered, not sure if the old lady had fallen
asleep.
"I know he was innocent. It would be good to know
whether you agree.'
'But that's not what I'm . . . '
The old woman slapped the edge of the bed lightly with

her hand.
"I know what you do. You are not interested in whether
he was guilty or innocent. But / am. In this particular case,
I am. And I hope you will be too. When you have read
everything. Promise me that? That you'll come back?'
Johanne smiled lightly. It was actually nothing more
than a non-committal grimace.




Emilie had gone missing before. Never for long, though
once - it must have been just after Grete died - he
hadn't found her for three hours. He looked everywhere.
First he'd made some irritated phone calls, to friends, to
Grete's sister who only lived ten minutes away and was
Emilie's favourite aunt, to her grandparents who hadn't
seen the child for days. He punched in new numbers as
concern turned to fear; his fingers hit the wrong keys. Then
he rushed around the neighbourhood, in ever increasing
circles, his fear growing into panic and he started to cry.
She was sitting in a tree writing a letter to Mummy, a
letter with pictures that she was going to send to Heaven as
a paper plane. He plucked her carefully from the branch
and sent the plane flying in an arc over a steep slope. It
glided from side to side and then disappeared over the top
of two birch trees that thereafter were known as the Road
to Paradise. He did not let her out of his sight for two
weeks. Not until the end of the holidays when school
forced him to let her go.
It was different this time.
He had never phoned the police before; her shorter and
longer disappearing acts were no more than was to be
expected. This was different. Panic hit him suddenly, like
a wave. He didn't know why, but when Emilie failed to
come home when she should, he ran towards the school,
not even noticing that he lost a slipper halfway. Her schoolbag
and a big bunch of coltsfoot were lying on the path
between the two main roads, a short cut that she never
dared take on her own.
Grete had bought the bag for Emilie a month before she
died. Emilie would never just leave it like that. Her father
picked it up reluctantly. He could be wrong, it could be
someone else's schoolbag, a more careless child, perhaps.
The schoolbag was almost identical, but he couldn't be sure
until he opened it, holding his breath, and saw the initials.
ES. Big square letters in Emilie's writing. It was Emilie's
schoolbag and she would never have just left it like that.




The man referred to in Alvhild Sofienberg's papers was
called Aksel Seier and he was born in 1935. When he
was fifteen years old, he'd started an apprenticeship as a
carpenter. The papers said very little about Aksel's childhood,
except that he moved to Oslo from Trondheim when
he was ten. His father got a job at the Aker shipyard after
the war. The boy had three offences on his criminal record
before he even reached adulthood. But nothing particularly
serious.
'Not compared with today, at least,' Johanne mumbled
to herself and read on. The paper was dry and yellow with
age. The court transcripts mentioned two kiosk break-ins
and an old Ford that was stolen and then left stranded on
Mosseveien when it ran out of petrol. When Aksel was
twenty-one, he was arrested for rape and murder.
The girl was called Hedvig and was only eight years old
when she died. A customs officer found her, naked and
mutilated, in a sack by a warehouse on Oslo docks. After
two weeks' intense investigation, Aksel Seier was arrested.
It was true that there was no technical evidence. No traces
of blood, no fingerprints. No footprints or marks of any kind
to link the person to the crime. But he had been seen there
by two reliable witnesses, out on honest business late that
night.
At first the young man denied it vigorously. But eventually
he admitted that he had been in the area between
Pipervika and Vippetangen on the night that Hedvig was

killed. Just doing some bootlegging, but he refused to give
the customer's name.
Only a few hours after his arrest, the police had managed
to dig up an old charge for flashing. Aksel was only eighteen
when the incident took place, and according to his own
statement he was simply urinating when drunk at
Ingierstrand one summer evening. Three girls had passed
him. He just wanted to tease them, he said. Drunken
horseplay and high spirits. He wasn't like that. He hadn't
flashed at them, but was just joking around with three hysterical
girls.
The charge was later dropped, but never quite disappeared.
Now it was resurrected from oblivion like an
indignant finger pointing at him, a stigma that he thought
had been forgotten.
When his name was published in the newspapers, in big
headlines that led Aksel's mother to commit suicide on the
night before Christmas 1956, three more incidents were
reported to the police. One was discreetly dropped when
the prosecuting authorities discovered that the middle
aged woman in question was in the habit of reporting a rape
every six months. The other two were used for all they
were worth.
Margrete Solli had dated Aksel for three months. She
had strong principles. Which didn't suit Aksel, she claimed,
blushing with downcast eyes. On more than one occasion
he had forced her to do what should only be done in marriage.
Aksel
himself told another version. He recalled delightful
nights by Sognsvann, when she giggled and said no and
slapped his hands playfully as they crept over her naked
skin. He remembered passionate goodbye kisses and his
own half-baked promises of marriage when he had finished
his apprenticeship. He told the police and the judge that
he'd had to persuade the young girl, but no more than was
normal. That's just the way women are before they get a
ring on their finger, is it not?
The third charge was made by a woman that Aksel Seier
claimed he had never met. The alleged rape had taken
place many years before when the girl was only fourteen.
Aksel denied it repeatedly. He had never seen her before in
his life. He stubbornly stuck to this throughout his nine
week custody and the long and devastating trial. He had
never seen the woman. He had never even heard of her.
But then he was known to be a liar.
When he was charged with murder, Aksel finally gave
the name of the customer who could give him an alibi. The
man was called Arne Frigaard and had bought twenty bottles
of good moonshine for twenty-five kroner. When the
police went to check this story, they met an astonished
Colonel Frigaard at his home in Frogner. He rolled his eyes
when he heard the gross accusations and showed the two
constables his bar. Honest drinks, every one. His wife said
very little, it was noted, but nodded when her pompous
husband insisted that he had been at home nursing a
migraine on the night in question. He had gone to bed
early.
Johanne stroked her nose and took a sip of cold tea.
There was nothing to indicate that anyone had investigated
the Colonel's story any further. All the same, she
could sense the irony, or perhaps even sarcastic objectivity,
in the judge's dry, factual rendition of the policeman's testimony.
The Colonel himself had not been called as a
witness in court. He suffered from migraines, his doctor

claimed, thereby sparing his patient of many years the
embarrassment of being confronted with allegations of
buying cheap spirits.
Johanne jumped when she heard noises from the bedroom.
Even after all this time, even when things had been
so much better for the past five years - the child was
healthy now, and usually slept soundly from sunset to sunrise
and probably just had a bit of a cold - she felt a chill run
down her spine whenever she heard the slightest sleepy
cough. All was quiet again.
One witness in particular stood out. Evander Jakobsen
was seventeen years old and was in prison himself.
However, he had been free when little Hedvig was murdered
and claimed that he'd been paid by Aksel Seier to
carry a sack for him from an address in the old part of town,
down to the harbour. In his first statements, he said that
Seier walked through the night streets with him, but didn't
want to carry the sack himself as 'that would draw too much
attention'. He later changed his story. It was not Seier who
had asked him to carry the sack, but another - unidentified
- man. In the new version, Seier met him at the
harbour and took the sack from him without saying much.
The sack supposedly contained old pigs' heads and trotters.
Evander Jakobsen couldn't be certain, as he never checked.
But it stank, that's for sure, and it could have weighed
roughly the same as an eight-year-old
This obviously phoney story had sowed seeds of doubt
in the mind of Dagbladet crime reporter. He described
Evander Jakobsen's explanation as 'highly implausible' and
had found support for this in Morgenbladet, where the
reporter unashamedly mocked the young jailbird's conflicting
stories from the witness stand.

But the journalists' doubts and reservations were of little
help.
Aksel Seier was sentenced for the rape of little Hedvig Gasoy, aged eight. He was also found guilty of killing her
with the intent to destroy any evidence of the first crime.
He was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Johanne placed all the papers carefully one on top of the
other. The small pile contained transcripts of the judgment
and a large number of newspaper articles. No police documents.
No records of questioning. No expert reports,
though it was clear that several of these had existed.
The newspapers stopped writing about the case soon
after the verdict was given.
For Johanne, Aksel Seier's sentence was just one of
many similar cases. It was the end of the story, however,
that made it different and that made it hard to sleep. It was
half past twelve and she wasn't in the slightest bit sleepy.
She read through the papers again. Under the verdicts,
attached to the newspaper cuttings with a paper clip, was
the old lady's alarming account.
Eventually Johanne stood up. It was starting to get light
outside. She would have to be up in a few hours. When she
nudged the child over to the other side of the bed, the little
girl grunted sleepily. She could just stay where she was.
Sleep was a long way off anyway.
It's an unbelievable story.'
'Do you mean that literally? That you actually don't
believe me?'
The room had just been aired. The sick woman was
more alert. She was sitting up in bed and the TV in the
corner was on, without any sound. Johanne smiled and
brushed her fingers lightly over the bedspread that was
hanging on the arm of the chair.
'Of course I believe you. Why shouldn't I?'
Alvhild Sofienberg didn't answer. Her eyes moved from
the younger woman to the silent television. Pictures flickered
ceaselessly and without meaning on the screen. The
old lady had blue eyes. Her face was oval-shaped and it was
as if her lips had been wiped out by the intense pain that
came and went. Her hair had withered away to thin wisps
that lay close to the narrow skull.
Maybe she had been beautiful once. It was difficult to say.
Johanne studied her ravaged features and tried to imagine
what she must have looked like in 1965. Alvhild Sofienberg
had turned thirty-five that year.
"I was born in 1965,' Johanne said suddenly, putting
down the folder. 'On 22 November, exactly two years after
Kennedy was assassinated.'
'My children were already quite old. I had just taken my
law exams.'
The old lady smiled, a real smile; her grey teeth shone
in the taut opening between her nose and throat. Her


12
consonants were harsh, and her vowels muted. She
reached out for a glass and took a drink of water.
Alvhild Sofienberg's first job was as an executive officer
for the Norwegian Correctional Services. She was responsible
for preparing applications for royal pardons. Johanne
already knew that. She had read it in the papers, in the old
lady's story that was stapled to the judgment and some yellowing
newspaper clippings about a man called Aksel Seier
who was sentenced for the murder of a child.
'A boring job, actually. Particularly when I look back on
it now. I don't recall being unhappy. Quite the opposite. I
had training, a qualification, a ... I had a university degree,
which was very impressive. At the time. In my family, at
least.'
She revealed her teeth again, and tried to moisten her
tight mouth with the tip of her tongue.
'How did you get hold of all the documents?' asked
Johanne, and refilled the glass with water from the carafe.
The ice cubes had melted and the water was tinged with
the smell of onions.
"I mean, it's never really been the case that applications
for pardons are accompanied by all the case documentation.
Police interrogations and the like. I don't quite see how you
can . . . '
Alvhild tried to straighten her back. When Johanne
leaned over to help her, she again registered the smell of
old onions. It intensified, the smell became a stench that
filled her nostrils and made her gag. She disguised the
cramps in her diaphragm by coughing.
"I smell of onions,' the old lady said sharply. 'No one
knows why.'
'Maybe it's

13


Johanne waved her finger in the direction of the water
carafe.
'Other way round,' coughed the old lady. 'The water
gets its smell from me. You'll just have to put up with it. I
asked for them.'
She pointed at the folder that had fallen on the floor.
'As I wrote there, I can't quite explain what it was that
roused my interest. Maybe it was the simplicity of the
application. The man had been in prison for eight years and
had never pleaded guilty. He had applied for a pardon three
times before and been rejected every time. But he still didn't complain. He didn't claim to be ill, as most people
did. He hadn't written page upon page about his deteriorating
health, his family and children who were missing him
at home and the like. His application was only one line.
Two sentences. "I am innocent. Therefore I request a
pardon." It fascinated me. So I asked for all the papers. The
pile of documents
Alvhild tried to lift her hands.
'Was nearly a metre high. I read and read and was more
and more convinced.'
Her fingers trembled with the strain and she lowered her

arms.
Johanne bent down to pick up the folder from the floor.
She had goosebumps on her arms. The window was slightly
open and there was a draught coming through. The curtains
moved unexpectedly and she jumped. Blue headlines flickered
on the TV screen, and it suddenly annoyed her that
the television was on for no reason.
'Do you agree? He was innocent? He was not proven
guilty. And someone has tried to cover it up.'
Alvhild Sofienberg's voice had taken on a sharp undertone,
an aggressive edge. Johanne leafed through the brittle papers
without saying anything.
'Well, it's pretty obvious,' she said, barely audibly.
'What did you say?'
'Yes, I agree with you.'
It was as if the patient was suddenly drained of all her
energy. She sank back into the pillow and closed her eyes.
Her face became more peaceful as if the pain was no longer
there. Only her nostrils quivered slightly.
'Perhaps the most frightening thing is not that he wasn't
proven guilty,' said Johanne slowly. 'The worst thing is that
he never . . . what happened afterwards, after he was
released, that he even ... I'd be surprised if he was still
alive.'
'Another one,' said Alvhild wearily, looking at the television;
she turned up the volume on the remote control that
was attached to the bedframe. 'Another child has been kidnapped.'
A
little boy smiled bashfully from an amateur photograph.
He had brown curly hair and was clutching a red
plastic fire engine to his chest. Behind him, out of focus,
you could make out an adult laughing.
'The mother, perhaps. Poor thing. Wonder if it's connected.
To the girl, I mean. The one who
Kim Sande Oksoy had disappeared from his home in
Baerum last night, said the metallic voice. The TV set was
old, the picture too blue and the sound tinny. The abductor
had broken into the terraced house while the family was
asleep; a camera panned over a residential area and then
focused on a window on the ground floor. The curtains
were billowing gently and the camera zoomed in on a
broken sill and a green teddy bear on the shelf just inside.
The policeman, a young man with hesitant eyes and an
uncomfortable uniform, appealed to anyone who might
have information to call in on the 800 number, or to contact
their nearest police station.
The boy was only five years old. It was now six days
since nine-year-old Emilie Selbu had disappeared on her
way home from school.
Alvhild Sofienberg had fallen asleep. There was a small
scar near her narrow mouth, a cleft from the corner of her
mouth up towards her ear. It made her look as if she was
smiling. Johanne crept out of the room, and as she went
down to the ground floor a nurse came towards her. She
said nothing, just stopped on the stairs and stepped to one
side. The nurse also smelt of onions, a vague scent of onion
and detergent. Johanne felt sick. She pushed past the other
woman, not knowing whether she would return to this
house where an old dying lady upstairs made the smell of
decay cling to everything and everyone.




Emilie felt bigger when the new boy arrived. He was
even more frightened than she was. When the man
pushed him into the room a while ago, he had pooed his
pants. Even though he was nearly old enough to be at
school. At one end of the room there was a sink and a toilet.
The man had thrown a towel and a bar of soap in with the
boy and Emilie managed to tidy him up. But there were no
clean clothes anywhere. She pushed the dirty pants in
under the sink, between the wall and the pipe. The boy
just had to go without pants and would not stop crying.
Until now. He had finally fallen asleep. There was only
one bed in the room. It was very narrow and probably very
old. The woodwork was brown and worn and someone had
drawn on it with a felt-tip that was barely visible any more.
When Emilie lifted the sheet she saw that the mattress was
full of long hair; a woman's hair was stuck to the foam mattress
and she quickly tucked the sheet back in place. The
boy lay under the duvet with his head in her lap. He had
brown curly hair and Emilie started to wonder if he could
talk at all. He had snivelled his name when she asked. Kim
or Tim. It was hard to make out. He had called for his
mother, so he wasn't entirely mute.
'Is he sleeping?'
Emilie jumped. The door was ajar. The shadows made it
hard to see his face, but his voice was clear. She nodded
weakly.
'Is he sleeping?'
The man didn't seem to be angry or annoyed. He didn't
bark like Daddy sometimes did when he had to ask the
same question several times.
'Yes.'
'Good. Are you hungry?'
The door was made of iron. And there was no handle on
the inside. Emilie did not know how long she had been in
the room with the toilet and the sink in one corner and the
bed in the other and nothing else apart from plaster walls
and the shiny door. It was a long time, that was all she
knew. She had tried the door a hundred times at least. It
was smooth and ice cold. The man was scared that it would
shut behind him. The few times that he had come into the
room, he had fixed the door to a hook on the wall. Normally
when he brought her food and something to drink, he left
it on a tray just inside the door.
'No.'
'OK. You should go to sleep as well. It's night.'
Night.
The sound of the heavy iron door closing made her cry.
Even though the man said it was night, it didn't feel like it.
There was no window in the room and the light was left on
the whole time, so there was no way of knowing whether it
was day or night. At first she had thought that slices of
bread and milk meant that it was breakfast and the stews
and pancakes that the man left on the tray were supper.
She finally understood, but then the man started to play
tricks. Sometimes she got bread three times in a row. Today,
after Kim or Tim had stumbled into her world, the man had
given them tomato soup twice. It was lukewarm and there
was no macaroni in it.
Emilie tried to stop crying. She didn't want to wake the
boy. She held her breath so that she wouldn't shake, but it
didn't work.
'Mummy,' she sobbed, without wanting to. "I want my
mummy.'
Daddy would be looking for her. He must have been
looking for a long time. Daddy and Auntie Beate were no
doubt still running around in the woods, even though it
was night. Maybe Granddad was there too. Gran had sore
feet, so she would be at home reading books or making
waffles for the others to eat when they'd been to the Road
to Paradise and the Heaven Tree and not found her anywhere.
'Mummy,'
whimpered Kim or Tim and then howled.
'Hush.'
'Mummy! Daddy!'
The boy got up suddenly and shrieked. His mouth was
a great gaping hole. His face twisted into one enormous
scream and she pressed herself against the wall and closed
her eyes.
'You mustn't scream,' she said in a flat voice. 'The man
will get angry with us.'
'Mummy! I want my daddy!'
The boy caught his breath. He was gasping for air, and
when Emilie opened her eyes she saw that his face was
dark red. Snot was running from one nostril. She grabbed
one corner of the duvet and wiped him clean. He tried to
hit her.
'Don't want,' he said and sobbed again. 'Don't want.'
'Shall I tell you a story?' asked Emilie.
'Don't want.'
He pulled his sleeve across his nose.
'My mummy is dead,' said Emilie and smiled a bit.
'She's sitting in Heaven watching over me. Always. I'm
sure she can watch over you too.'
'Don't want.'
At least the boy was not crying so hard any more.
'My mummy is called Grete. And she's got a BMW.'
'Audi,' said the boy.
'Mummy's got a BMW in Heaven.'
'Audi,' the boy repeated, with a cautious smile that
made him much nicer.
'And a unicorn. A white horse with a horn in its forehead
that can fly. Mummy can fly anywhere on her unicorn when
she can't be bothered to use the BMW. Maybe she'll come
here. Soon, I think.'
'With a bang,' said the boy.
Emilie knew very well that her mother didn't have a
BMW. She wasn't in Heaven at all and unicorns don't exist.
There was no Heaven either, even though Daddy said
there was. He liked so much to talk about what Mummy
was doing up there, everything that she had always wanted,
but they could never afford. In Paradise, nothing cost anything.
They didn't even have money there, Daddy said,
and smiled. Mummy could have whatever she wanted and
Daddy thought it was good for Emilie to talk about it. She
had believed him for a long time and it was good to think
that Mummy had diamonds as big as plums in her ears as
she flew around in a red dress on a unicorn.
Auntie Beate had told Daddy off. Emilie disappeared to
write a letter to Mummy and when Daddy eventually
found her, Auntie Beate shouted so loudly that the walls
shook. The grown-ups thought Emilie was asleep. It was
late at night.
'It's about time you told the child the truth, Tonnes.
Grete is dead. Full stop. She is ashes in an urn and Emilie
is old enough to understand. You have to stop. You'll ruin
her with all your stories. You're keeping Grete alive artificially
and I'm not even sure who you're actually trying to
fool, yourself or Emilie. Grete is dead. DEAD, do you
understand?'
Auntie Beate was crying and angry at the same time. She
was the cleverest person in all the world. Everyone said
that. She was a senior doctor and knew everything about
sick hearts. She saved people from certain death, just
because she knew so much. If Auntie Beate said that
Daddy's stories were rubbish, then she must be right. A few
days later, Daddy had taken Emilie out into the garden to
look at the stars. There were four new holes in the sky,
because Mummy wanted to see her better, he told her,
pointing. Emilie didn't answer. He was sad. She could see
it in his eyes when he picked up a book and started to read
to her on the bed. She refused to listen to the rest of the
story about Mummy's trip to Japan Heaven, a story that had
stretched over three evenings and was actually quite funny.
Daddy made money from translating books and was a bit
too fond of stories.
'I'm called Kim,' said the boy, and put his thumb in his
mouth.
'I'm called Emilie,' said Emilie.
They didn't know that it was starting to get light when
they fell asleep.
One and half storeys above them, at ground level, in a
house on the edge of a small wood, a man sat and stared out
of the window. He was feeling remarkably good, nearly
intoxicated, as if he was facing a challenge that he knew he
could master. It was impossible to sleep properly. During
the night he had sometimes felt himself slipping away, only
to be roused again by a very clear thought.
The window looked west. He saw the darkness huddle
in behind the horizon. The hills on the other side of the
valley were bathed in strips of morning light. He got up and
put the book on the table.
No one else knew. In less than two days one of the two
children in the cellar would be dead. He felt no joy in this
knowledge, but a feeling of elated determination made him
indulge in a bit of sugar and a drop of milk in the bitter
coffee from the night before.

'T"I Telcome to the programme, Johanne Vik. Now, you
V V are a lawyer and a psychologist, and you wrote your
thesis on why people commit sexually motivated crimes.
Given recent events
Johanne closed her eyes for a moment. The lights were
strong. But it was still cold in the enormous room and she
felt the skin on her forearms contract.
She should have refused the invitation. She should have
said no. Instead she said:
'Let me first clarify that I did not write a thesis on why
some people commit sex crimes. As far as I know, no one
knows that for certain. I did, however, compare a random
selection of convicted sex offenders with an equally
random selection of other offenders to look at the similarities
and differences in background, childhood and early
adult years. My thesis is called, Sexually Motivated Crime, a
comp . . . '
'Oh, that's a bit complicated, Ms Vik. So to put it simply,
you wrote a thesis about sex offenders. Two children have
been brutally snatched from their parents in less than a
week. Do you think there can be any doubt that these are
sexually motivated crimes?'
'Doubt?'
She didn't dare to pick up the plastic cup of water. She
clasped her fingers together to stop her hands from shaking
uncontrollably. She wanted to answer. But her voice let her
down. She swallowed.
'Doubt has got nothing to do with it. I don't see how
there can be any basis for making such a claim.'
The presenter lifted his hand and frowned in irritation,
as if she had broken some kind of deal.
'Of course it is possible,' she corrected herself.
'Everything is possible. Children can be molested, but in
this case it might equally be something different. I am not
a detective and only know about the case from the media.
All the same, I would assume that the investigation has not
yet even concluded that the two . . . abductions, I guess
that is what we should call them . . . are in any way connected.
I agreed to come on the show on the understanding

that
She had to swallow again. Her throat was tight. Her right
hand was shaking so much that she had to surreptitiously
push it under her thigh. She should have said no.
'And you,' the presenter said cockily to a lady in a black
jacket, with long silver hair. 'Solveig Grimsrud, director for
the newly established Protect Our Children, you are clearly
of the opinion that this is a case of paedophilia?'
'Given what we know about similar cases abroad, it
would be incredibly naive to think anything else. It is difficult
to imagine any alternative motives for abducting
children - children that have absolutely nothing to do with
each other, if we are to believe the papers. We know of
cases in the US, Switzerland, not to mention those gruesome
cases in Belgium only a few years ago ... We all know
these cases and we all know what the outcome was.'
Grimsrud patted her heart. There was a loud scraping
noise in the microphone that was attached to her lapel.
Johanne noticed a technician holding his ears, just off
camera.
24
'What do you mean by . . . outcome?'
"I mean what I say. Children are always abducted for one
of three reasons.'
Her long hair was falling into her eyes and Solveig
Grimsrud pushed it behind her ears before counting on her
fingers.
'Either it is simply a case of extortion, which we can
ignore in these cases. Both families have average incomes
and are not wealthy. Then there are a small number of children
who are abducted by either their mother or their
father, generally the latter, when a relationship breaks
down. And again, that is not the case here. The girl's
mother is dead and the boy's parents are still married.
Which leaves the last alternative. The children have been
abducted by one or more paedophiles.'
The presenter hesitated.

Johanne thought about waking up and feeling a naked
child's stomach against her back, the tickle of sleepy fingers
against her neck.
A man in his late fifties with aviator specs and downcast
eyes took a deep breath and started to talk.
'In my opinion, Grimsrud's theory is just one of many. I think we should be ... '
'Fredrik Skolten,' interrupted the presenter. 'You are a
private detective, with twenty years' experience in the
police force. And just to let our viewers know, NCIS
Norway, the National Criminal Investigation Service, was
invited to come on the show this evening, but declined.
But, Skolten, given your extensive experience in the police,
what theories do you think they are working on?'
'As I was just saying . . . '
The man studied a spot on the table and rubbed his
right index finger in a regular movement against the back of
his left hand.
'At the moment they are probably keeping things very
open. But there is a lot of truth in what Ms Grimsrud said.
Child abductions do generally fall into three categories, which
she ... And the first two would appear to be reasonably

'Unlikely?'
The presenter leaned closer, as if they were having a private
conversation.
'Well. Yes. But there is no basis for. . . Without any further
'It's
time people woke up,' interrupted Solveig
Grimsrud. 'Only a few years ago we thought that the sexual
abuse of children didn't concern us. It was something that
only happened out there, in the USA, far away. We have let
our children walk on their own to school, go on camping
trips without adult supervision, be away from home for
hours on end without making sure that they're being supervised.
It cannot continue. It's time that we ... '
'It's time that I left.'
Johanne didn't realise that she had stood up. She stared
straight into the camera, an electronic cyclops that stared
back with an empty grey eye and made her freeze. Her
microphone was still attached to her jacket.
'This is ridiculous. Somewhere out there
She pointed her finger at the camera and held it there.
' ... is a widower whose daughter disappeared a week
ago. There is a couple whose son was abducted, snatched
from them in the middle of the night. And you are sitting

here
She moved her hand to point at Solveig Grimsrud; it was

shaking.
' . . . telling them that the worst thing imaginable has
happened. You have absolutely no grounds, and I repeat, no grounds for saying that. It is thoughtless, malicious . . . Irresponsible. As I said, I only know what I have seen in the
media, but I hope ... In fact I am certain that the police
are still keeping all options open, unlike you. Off the top of my head, I can think of six or seven different explanations
for the abductions, and each is as good or bad as the
next. And they are at least based on stronger arguments
than your speculative scenario. It's only twenty-four hours
since little Kim disappeared. Twenty-four hours! Words fail
me
And she meant it literally. Suddenly she was quiet. Then
she pulled the microphone from her jacket and disappeared.
The camera followed her as she made for the studio
door, with heavy, unfamiliar movements.
'Well,' said the presenter; there was sweat on his upper
lip and he was breathing through his mouth. 'That was
quite something.'

Somewhere else in Oslo, two men were sitting watching
TV. The older one smiled slightly and the younger one
thumped the wall with his fist.
'Shit, you can say that again. Do you know that woman?
Have you heard of her?'
The older man, Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, from
the NCIS, nodded thoughtfully.
"I read the thesis she mentioned. Interesting, actually.
She's now looking at the media's coverage of serious crimes.
As far as I can understand from the article I read, she's comparing
the fate of a number of convicted criminals who got a lot of press attention, with those who didn't. They all
pleaded innocent. 
She's gone way back, to the fifties I
think. Don't know why.'
Sigmund Berli laughed.	^ ^
She is so right that it might be anything.
he said, grabbing his jacket. 'See you tomorrow.

8


A child doesn't know when it's going to die. It has no
concept of death. Instinctively it fights for life, like a
lizard that's willing to give up its tail when threatened with
extermination. All beings are genetically programmed to
fight for survival. Children as well. But they have no concept
of death. A child is frightened of real things. The dark.
Strangers, perhaps, being separated from their family, pain,
scary noises and the loss of objects. Death, on the other
hand, is incomprehensible for a mind that is not yet mature.
A child does not know that it is going to die.
That is what the man was thinking as he got everything
ready. He poured some Coke into an ordinary glass and
wondered why he was bothering with such thoughts. Even
though the boy had not been picked at random, there were
no emotional ties between them. The boy was a total
stranger, emotionally, a pawn in an important game. He
wouldn't feel anything. In that sense, he was better served
by dying. He missed his parents, a pain that was both
understandable and to be expected in a boy of five and
surely that was worse than a swift, painless death.
The man powdered the Valium pill and sprinkled the
pieces into the glass. It was a small dose, he just wanted the
boy to fall asleep. It was important that he was asleep when
he died. It was easiest. Practical. Injecting children is hard
enough, without them shouting and kicking.
The Coke made him thirsty. He moistened his lips
slowly with his tongue. A shiver ran through the muscles in
his back; in a way he was looking forward to it. To comoletine
his detailed plan.
It would take ,12 weeks and four days, if everything went according to schedule.



There was little sign that it was nearly midsummer. The
water at Sognsvann was shrouded in a grey mist and
the trees were still bare. Here and there, a few eager willows
showed the beginnings of shoots, and on south-facing
slopes, coltsfoot flowers stretched up on long stems.
Otherwise, it could as easily have been the fourteenth of
October as the fourteenth of May. A six-year-old in red
overalls and yellow winter boots pulled off her hat.
'No, Kristiane. Don't go in the water.'
'Just let her wade a bit. She's got her boots on.'
'Jesus, Isak, it's not shallow enough! Kristiane! No!'
The girl didn't want to listen. She was humming a
monotonous tune and standing with water over the top of
her boots already. They filled up with a gurgling sound.
The girl stared ahead with a blank expression, repeating
the four notes to herself, over and over.
'You're soaking,' complained Johanne Vik and hauled
the girl ashore.
The child smiled happily at her feet and stopped
singing.
Her mother took her by the arm and led her over to a
bench a few metres away. She pulled some dry tights, a pair
of thick socks and heavy trainers out of the rucksack.
Kristiane did not want to put them on. She sat stiffly and
clenched her legs together, staring into space again. The
same four notes vibrating at the back of her throat: dam-di
rum-ram. Dam-di-rum-ram.
'You'll get ill,' said Johanne. 'You'll catch a cold.'
'Cold,' smiled Kristiane, and caught her mother's eye
fleetingly, suddenly alert.
'Yes, ill.'
Johanne tried to keep hold of the look, keep their eyes
locked.
'Dam-di-rum-ram,' hummed Kristiane and stiffened

again.
'Here, let me.'
Isak took his daughter under the arms and threw her up

into the air.
'Daddy,' shrieked Kristiane, catching her breath. 'More!'
'More there will be,' shouted Isak, letting the child drag
her soaking-wet boots along the ground before throwing
her up into the mist again. 'Kristiane is a plane!'
'Plane! Fly plane! Flyman!'
Johanne had no idea where she got it from. The child
put together words that neither she nor Isak used, nor
anyone else for that matter. But there was also some kind of
logic to them, a relevance that might be hard to grasp in the
moment, but that implied a sense of linguistic understanding
that contrasted sharply with the short, simple words that
she otherwise used - and she only did it when she wanted

to.
'Dam-di-rum-ram.'
The flight was over. The song had returned. But Kristiane
sat quietly on her father's knee and let him change her.
'Freezing bum,' said Isak, and rapped her lightly before
pulling the dry tights on over her feet, her toes curling
abnormally into the soles of her feet.
'Kristiane is freezing all over.'
'Kristianecold. Hungry.'

'There. Shall we go?'
He put the girl down in front of him. Then he stuffed
the wet clothes into the rucksack. He pulled a banana from
one of the side pockets, peeled it and gave it to Kristiane.
'Where were we?'
He ran his hand through his hair. The damp air made it
stick together. He looked up. He had always seemed so
young, even though he was really only one month younger
than she was. Irresponsible and eternally young; his hair
always slightly too long, his clothes just a little too loose, too
baggy for his age. Johanne tried to swallow the familiar
sense of defeat, the perpetual experience of being the one
who was least good with Kristiane.
'Right, now tell me the rest of the story.'
He smiled encouragingly and made a small movement
with his head. Kristiane was already ten metres in front of
them, with her characteristic toddling walk that she should
have grown out of long ago. Isak put his hand on Johanne's
shoulder for a moment, before starting to walk too - slowly,
as if uncertain that Johanne would follow at all.
'When Alvhild Sofienberg decided to look more closely
at the case,' Johanne began, her eyes following the small
figure that was once again heading for the water, 'she met
unexpected resistance. Aksel Seier didn't want to talk to
her.'
'Oh, why not? He'd applied for the pardon himself, so
surely it must have been encouraging that someone from
the Ministry was interested in following up his case?'
'You would think so. I don't know. Kristiane!'
The girl turned around and laughed loudly. Slowly she
turned away from the water and trundled over towards the edge of the wood; she must have seen something.
'Whatever, she didn't give up. Alvhild Sofienberg, that
is. She eventually managed to get in touch with the prison
chaplain. A reliable man who had seen a lot. He was convinced
that Seier was . . . innocent. As well. Obviously, that
was fuel to Alvhild's fire. She didn't give in and went back
to her superiors.'
'Hang on.'
Isak stopped. He nodded towards Kristiane, who had
been joined by an enormous Bernese mountain dog. The
child put her arms around the animal's neck and whined.
The dog growled lazily.
'You should get a dog,' he said quietly. 'Kristiane is fantastic
with dogs. I think it's good for her to be with them.'
'Or you could,' retorted Johanne. 'Why is it me that
always has to carry the load? Always!'
He took a deep breath and slowly let it out through the
gap between his front teeth. A low, extended whistling
sound that made the dog prick its ears. Kristiane laughed

loudly.
'Forget it,' he said, shaking his head. 'Then what happened?'
'You're
not really interested.'
Isak Aanonsen brushed his face with a slim hand.
"I am. How can you say that? I've listened to the whole
story so far and I am very interested in hearing the rest.
What's the matter with you?'
Kristiane had managed to get the dog to lie down. And
now she was sitting astride its back, burying her hands in its
fur. The astonished owner stood beside them, looking at
Isak and Johanne with undisguised concern.
'It's OK,' called Isak, and sprinted over to the dog and
the child. 'She's got a way with animals.'

'You can say that again,' said the man.
Isak lifted his daughter off the animal and the dog stood
up. The owner put on its leash and headed off northwards
at a brisk pace, looking back over his shoulder every now
and then, as if frightened that the scary child might follow.
'So carry on,' said Isak.
'Dam-di-rum-ram,' sang Kristiane.
'Her boss refused her request,' said Johanne brusquely.
'He said that she should leave the case be and do her job.
When she confronted him and said that she'd had all the
documents sent over and had read them carefully, he
became visibly agitated. And when she then said she was
convinced that Seier was innocent, he was furious. But the
really - the most frightening thing about the whole story is
what happened next.'
Kristiane suddenly took her by the hand.
'Mamma,' she said happily. 'My mummy and me.'
'One day when Alvhild Sofienberg came into the office,
all the papers had disappeared.'
'Disappeared? Gone?'
'Yep. A pile of documents over one metre high. Vanished
without a trace.'
'Go for a walk,' said Kristiane. 'My mummy and me.'
'And Daddy,' said Johanne.
'And then what happened?'
Isak's brows were knitted. The likeness between him
and his daughter was even more obvious; the narrow face,
the knitted eyebrows.
'Alvhild Sofienberg was quite . . . frightened. In any
case, she didn't dare to nag her boss any more when she
heard that the files had been collected "by the police".'
She made quote marks with her fingers.
'And then completely confidentially, very hush-hush,
she was told that Aksel Seier had been released.'
'What?'
'A long time before he should have been. Released. Just
like that. Discreetly and without any fuss.'
They had reached the big parking place by the
Norwegian School of Sports Sciences. There were hardly
any cars there. The ground was criss-crossed with deep tyre
ruts and puddles. Johanne's old Opel Kadett stood parked
under three large weeping birches, beside Isak's Audi TT.
'Let me just get this straight,' said Isak, holding up his
hand as if he was about to take an oath. 'We're talking
about 1965. Not the nineteenth century. Not the war. But
1965, the year that you and I were born, when Norway had
been built up again after the war and bureaucracy was well
established and due process was a recognised concept.
Right? And he was just released without further ado? I
mean, there's absolutely nothing wrong with releasing an
obviously innocent man, but. . . '
'Exactly, there's a huge but.'
'Daddycar,' said Kristiane and stroked the silver-grey
sports car. 'Billycar. Automobillycar.'
The adults laughed.
'You're a right one, you are,' said Johanne, tying
Kristiane's hat more securely under her chin.
'Where the hell does she get it from?'
'Don't swear,' warned Johanne. 'She'll pick it up. At

least
She straightened her back. Kristiane sat down in a
puddle and hummed.
'Alvhild's source, the prison chaplain, told her that an old
woman from Lillestrom had contacted Romerike Police.
She'd been nursing a painful secret for a long time. Her
son, a slightly retarded man who still lived with her, had
come home in the early hours on the night that little
Hedvig disappeared. His clothes were covered in blood and
he was very agitated. The woman immediately suspected
him when Hedvig's story became known shortly after. But
she didn't want to say anything. Perhaps not so difficult
to... '
She looked over at her daughter.
'In any case . . . Her son had died. The case was hushed
up by the police and prosecuting authorities. The woman
was more or less dismissed as hysterical. But whatever happened,
our friend Aksel Seier was released only a few
weeks later. Discreetly. Nothing was written in the papers.
Alvhild never heard any more about it.'
The mist was clearing; some low cloud drifted slowly
over the treetops to the east. But now it had started to rain
properly. A soaking-wet English setter circled round
Kristiane, barking and running to fetch the stones she
threw with delighted screams.
'But why is this Alvhild Sofienberg telling you?'
'Hmm?'
'Why is she telling you about this now? Thirty ... thirty
five years later?'
'Because something strange happened last year. The
case has been bothering her for years. And now that she's a
pensioner, she decided to study the case in detail again.
She contacted the regional state archives and the National
Archives to get hold of the documents. And they no longer
exist.'
'What?'
'They've vanished. They are not in the National Archives.

Not in the regional state archives. Oslo Police Force can't
find them and nor can Romerike Police. More than a metre
of case documents has simply disappeared.'
Kristiane had got up from her puddle. She pottered
towards them, wet and filthy from head to toe.
'I'm glad you are not getting in my car,' said Isak, and
squatted down in front of her. 'But I'll see you on the seventeenth
of May, OK?'
'Aren't you going to give Daddy a hug before we go?'
asked Johanne.
Kristiane reluctantly allowed herself to be hugged; her
eyes were miles away.
'Do you think you'll manage, Isak?'
His eyes were firmly fixed on Kristiane.
'Of course I will. I'm a wizard, don't you know. If Aksel
Seier is still alive, I'll find out where he lives in less than a
week. Guaranteed.'
'There are no guarantees in life,' retorted Johanne. 'But
thank you for trying. If anyone was going to manage it, it
would be you.'
'Sure thing,' said Isak and slipped into his TT. 'See you
on Wednesday.'

She stared after him until the car disappeared over the brow
of the hill down towards Kringsja.
Isak would never be anything other than a big boy. She
had just not realised it soon enough. Before, before
Kristiane, she had envied him his quickness, his enthusiasm,
his optimism; the childish belief that everything could
be sorted. He had built an entire future on boundless self
confidence; Isak started a dot.com company before most people even knew what they were and had had the sense to
sell it in time. Now he enjoyed playing around with a computer
for a few hours every day, he sailed in regattas half the
year and helped the Salvation Army to look for missing persons
in his spare time.
Johanne had fallen in love with the way he embraced
the world with laughter. The shrug of his shoulders when
things got a bit complicated that made him so different and
attractive to her.
And then along came Kristiane. The first years were
swallowed up by three heart operations, sleepless nights
and anxiety. When they finally woke up from their first
night of uninterrupted sleep, it was too late. They limped
on together for another year in some semblance of marriage.
A two-week family stay at the National Centre for
Child and Adolescent Psychiatry in a futile attempt to find
a diagnosis for Kristiane had resulted in them separating. If
not exactly as friends, at least with a relatively intact mutual
respect.
They never found a diagnosis. Kristiane wandered
around in her own little world and the doctors shook their
heads. Autistic, perhaps, they said, then frowned at the
child's obvious ability to develop emotional attachments
and her great need for physical contact. Does it matter?
Isak asked. The child is fine and the child is ours and I
don't give a shit what's wrong with her. He didn't understand
how much it mattered. To find a diagnosis. To make
arrangements for her. To make it possible for Kristiane to
achieve her full potential.
He was so bloody irresponsible.
The problem was that he never had accepted that he
was the father of a mentally handicapped child.

Isak glanced back in the mirror. Johanne looked older now.
Tired. She took everything so seriously. He desperately
wanted to suggest that Kristiane could live with him all the
time, not just every other week like now. He could see it
every time: when he handed Kristiane back after a week,
Johanne was in a good mood and rested. When he picked
up his daughter the following Sunday, Johanne was grey,
drawn and impatient. And it wasn't good for Kristiane. Nor
was the perpetual round of specialists and self-appointed
experts. Surely it wasn't that important to find out what was
wrong with the child. The main thing was that her heart
functioned properly, she ate well and was happy. His
daughter was happy. Isak was sure of that.
Johanne had been grown up too long. Before, before
Kristiane, it had been attractive. Sexy. Johanne's ambition.
The way she always took everything so seriously. Her
plans. Her efficiency. He had fallen head over heels for her
mature determination, her admirable progress in her studies,
her work at the university.
Then along came Kristiane.
He loved that child. She was his child. There was nothing
wrong with Kristiane. She wasn't like other children,
but she was herself. That was all she needed to be. All the
specialists' opinions on what was actually wrong with the
child were irrelevant. But not for Johanne. She always had
to get to the bottom of everything.
She was so bloody responsible.
The problem was that she had never accepted that she
was mother to a mentally handicapped child.

10



Detective Inspector Adam Stubo looked like an American
football player. He was stocky, obviously overweight,
and not much more than average height. The extra kilos were
evenly distributed over his shoulders, neck and thighs. His
ribcage was bursting from his white shirt. There were two
metal tubes in the pocket above his heart. Before she realised
they were cigar cases, Johanne Vik thought that the man actually
went around with ammunition in his pocket.
He had sent a car for her. It was the first time that
anyone had sent a car for Johanne Vik. She was very
uncomfortable about it and had asked him not to. She could
take the metro. She could take a taxi. Certainly not, insisted
Stubo. He sent a Volvo, anonymous and dark blue, with a
young man behind the wheel.
'You'd think this was the security service.' She smiled
tightly as she shook Stubo's hand. 'Dark-blue Volvos and
silent drivers with sunglasses.'
His laughter was as powerful as the throat it came from.
His teeth were white, even, with a glimpse of gold from a
molar on the right-hand side.
'Don't worry about Oscar. He has a lot to learn.'
A faint smell of cigars hung in the air. But there were no
ashtrays. The desk was unusually big, with tidy folders on
one side and a PC that was switched off on the other. A map
of Norway hung on the wall behind Stubo's chair, along with
an FBI poster and a picture of a brown horse. It had been
taken in summer in a field of wild flowers. The horse tossed
its head as the shutter clicked, its mane standing like a halo
round its head, eyes looking straight into the camera.
'Beautiful horse,' she said, pointing at the photograph.

'Yours?'
'Sabra,' he said and smiled again; this man smiled all the
time. 'Beautiful animal. Thank you for agreeing to come. I
saw you on TV
Johanne wondered how many people had said that to her
in the last few days. Typically, Isak was the only one who
hadn't said a word about the incredibly embarrassing
episode. But then he never watched television. Johanne's
mother, on the other hand, had phoned five times in the first
half-hour after the show; the answer machine hurled her
screeching voice at Johanne as soon as she was inside the
door. Johanne didn't call her back. Which resulted in four
more messages, each one more agitated than the last. At
work the day after, they had patted her on the shoulder.
Some had laughed, others had been extremely put out on
her behalf. The woman at the checkout in her local supermarket
had leaned over to her conspiratorially and whispered
so that the whole shop could hear, "I saw you on the telly!'
Viewer figures for News 21 must have been pretty good.
'You were great,' said Stubo.
'Great? I barely said anything.'
'What you said was important. The fact that you left said
far more than any of the other. . . people of limited talent
managed to utter. Did you read my mail?'
She gave a brief nod.
'But I think you're barking up the wrong tree. I don't see
how I can help you. I'm not exactly
'I've read your thesis,' he interrupted. 'Very interesting.
In my profession

He looked straight at her and fell silent. His eyes had an
apologetic look, as if he was embarrassed about what he
actually did.
'We're not that good at keeping ourselves up to date.
Not unless things are directly relevant to investigation.
Things like this
He opened a drawer and pulled out a book. Johanne
recognised the cover immediately, with her name in small
letters against a bleached winter landscape.
"I should imagine I'm the only one here who has read it.
Shame. It's very relevant.'
'To what?'
Again, a despondent, partly apologetic expression passed
over his face.
'The police profession. To anyone who wants to understand
the essence of a crime.'
'Essence of a crimed Are you sure you don't mean the criminal^
'Well noted, Professor. Well noted.'
'I'm not a professor. I'm a university lecturer.'
'Does that matter?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Why
'Yes. Does it really matter what I call you? If I call you a
professor it means nothing more than that I know you do
research and teach at the university. Which is true, isn't it?
That's exactly what you do, isn't it?'
'Yes, but it's not right to call yourself
'To make more of yourself than you are? To be a bit
sloppy with formalities? Is that what you mean?'
Johanne blinked and took off her glasses. She slowly
polished the left glass with the corner of her shirt. She was
buying time. The man on the other side of the desk had
been reduced to a grey fuzz, an indistinct figure without
any distinguishing features.
'Precision is my subject,' she heard the shapeless face
continue. 'In every detail. Good police work means placing
one stone on top of another with millimetric precision. If
I'm sloppy . . . If any of my men overlook a single hair, miss
by a minute, take the smallest short cut because we believe
we know something that strictly speaking we can't be sure
of yet, then . . . '
Bang.
He clapped his hands together and Johanne put her
glasses on again.
'So we're not doing too well,' he added quietly. 'And to
be honest, I'm getting a bit sick of it.'
This was nothing to do with her. It was none of her
business if a middle-aged detective from the NCIS was sick
of his job. The man was obviously having an existential
crisis and it had absolutely nothing to do with her.
'Not of the job, per se,' he suddenly added, and offered
her a sweet. 'Not at all. Here, have one. Does it smell of
cigar smoke in here? Should I open a window?'
She shook her head and smiled faintly.
'No, it smells nice.'
He smiled back. He was good-looking. Good-looking in
a nearly extreme way; his nose was too straight, too big. His
eyes were too deep, too blue. His mouth was too sharp, too
well formed. Adam Stubo was too old to have such a white

smile.
'You must be wondering why I wanted to talk to you?' he
said cheerfully. 'When you corrected me earlier... corrected

essence of a crime to the essence of a criminal, you hit the
nail on the head. That's what it's about.'
"I don't understand . . . '
'Just wait.'
He turned to the photograph of the horse.
'Sabra here,' he said, clasping his hands behind his head,
'is a good, old-fashioned riding horse. You can put a fiveyear-old
on her and she trots off with a careful step. But
when I ride her. . . wow! I raced with her for years. Mostly
for fun, of course, I was never particularly good. The point
is ... '
Suddenly he leaned towards her and she could smell a
hint of sweets on his breath. Johanne was not entirely certain
whether this sudden intimacy was comfortable or
repulsive. She moved back.
'I've heard people say that horses don't see colour,' he
continued. 'They may well be right. But no matter what
they say, Sabra hates everything that is blue. And she
doesn't like the rain, she loves wild mares, is allergic to
cats and is far too easily distracted by cars with big
engines.'
He hesitated a moment, tilted his head a touch before
continuing.
'The point is that I could always explain her results.
Based on who she is. As ... as a horse. If she pulled down
a fence, I didn't need to do an in-depth analysis, like other
people and more serious jockeys did. I knew
He looked up at the picture.
"I could see it in her eyes. Her soul, if you like. In her
character. Based on how I know she is.'
Johanne wanted to say something. She should make
some comment or another.

'That's not the way we work here,' he said before she
could think of anything. 'We go the other way.'
'I've still no idea what it's got to do with me.'
Adam Stubo folded his hands again, this time as if in
prayer, and then lowered them slowly on to the blotter.
'Two abducted children and two devastated families.
My people have already sent over forty different tests to
the laboratories. We have several hundreds of photographs
of crime scenes. We've gathered so many witness statements
that you'd get a headache just hearing the number.
Nearly sixty men are working on the case, or to be more
precise, the cases. And I'm afraid it's got me nowhere. I want
to know more about the perpetrator. That's why I need

you.'
'You need a profiler,' she said slowly.
'Exactly. I need you.'
'No,' she said a bit too loudly. 'It's not me that you

need.'

In a terraced house in Baerum, a woman looked at her
watch. Time was out of synch. Seconds no longer followed
seconds. One minute did not lead on to another. The hours
were stacking up. They were eternal and then suddenly
very short. They came back when they were finally over;
she recognised them, like old enemies that would not leave
her in peace.
The fear that first morning was at least something real,
for both of them. Something they could channel into a
round of telephone calls, to the police, to their parents. To
work. To the fire brigade, who came on a wild goose chase
and were of no help at all in finding the little five-year-old
boy with brown curly hair who had disappeared during the

night. Lasse rang everyone he could think of: the hospital,
which sent an ambulance but found no one they could take
away. She rang all the neighbours, who were sceptical and
stopped at the gate when they saw uniformed police in the
front garden.
The fear could be used. Since then, things had just got
worse.
She stumbled on the cellar stairs.
The stabilisers had fallen down from the wall. Lasse had
just taken them off Kim's bike. He had been so proud.
Cycled off with his blue helmet. Fallen, got up again.
Cycled on. Without stabilisers. They hung them by the
cellar steps, just inside the door, like a trophy.
'So that I can see how clever I am,' Kim said to his
father, jiggling his loose front tooth. 'It's going to fall out
soon. How much will I get from the tooth fairy?'
They needed jam.
The twins needed jam. And the jam was in the cellar.
She made it last year. Kim had helped to pick the berries.
Kim. Kim. Kim.
The twins were only two years old and needed jam.
There was something lying in front of the storeroom.
She couldn't think what it might be. An oblong package, a
roll of something?
It wasn't big. Just over a metre, maybe. Something
wrapped up in grey plastic, with a piece of paper on the top.
It was taped on. Red felt-tip on a big white sheet of paper.
Brown tape. Grey plastic. A head was sticking out of the
bundle, the top of a head, a child's head with brown curly
hair.
'A note,' she said lamely. 'There's a note there.'

Kim was smiling. He was dead and he was smiling.
There was a slight red hole in his upper gum where he had
lost a tooth. She sat down on the floor. Time ran in circles
and she knew that this was the start of something that
would never end. When Lasse came down to look for her,
she had no idea where she was. She did not let go of her
boy until someone gave her an injection and she was taken
off to hospital. A policeman opened the boy's closed right
hand.
Inside was a tooth, a white tooth with a small bloody
root.

Even though the office was relatively big, the air was
already stuffy. Her thesis was still lying on the edge of the
desk. Adam Stubo ran his index finger over the pale winter
landscape before pointing at her.
'You are a psychologist and a lawyer,' he insisted.
'That's not true. Not entirely. I've got a college degree in
psychology. From the US. Not a university degree. Lawyer,
on the other hand - that's correct.'
She was sweating and asked for a glass of water. It struck
her that she had been forced to come here, more or less
commandeered, against her will, by a policeman who she
wanted nothing to do with. He was talking about a case that
had nothing to do with her. It was well beyond the scope of
her expertise.
'I would like to go now,' she said politely. 'I'm afraid I
won't be able to help you. You obviously know people
in the FBI. Ask them. They use profilers. As far as I
know.'
She nodded at the shield on the wall; it was blue, tasteless
and eye-catching.
'I'm an academic, Stubo. And I'm the mother of a young

child. This case repulses me. It frightens me. Unlike you,
I'm allowed to think like that. I want to go.'
He poured some water from a bottle without a top and
put a paper cup down in front of her.
'You were thirsty,' he reminded her. 'Drink. Do you
really mean that?'
'Mean what?'
She spilt some water and noticed that she was shaking.
The cold water trickled from the corner of her mouth down
over her chin and into the hollow of her neck. She tugged
at the neck of her sweater.
'That it doesn't concern you.'
The telephone rang. The sound was shrill and insistent.
Adam Stubo grabbed the receiver. His Adam's apple made
three obvious jumps, as if the man was about to throw up.
He said nothing. A minute passed. A quiet yes, not much
more than an incomprehensible grunt, came from his lips.
Another minute passed. Then he put the phone down. He
slowly angled for the cigar holder in his breast pocket. His
fingers tickled the brushed metal. Still he said nothing.
Suddenly he pushed the cigar back into place and tightened
his tie.
'The boy has been found,' he said in a hoarse voice.
'Kim Sande Oksoy. His mother found him in their own
cellar. Wrapped up in a plastic bag. The murderer had left
a note. Now you've got what you deserved.''
Johanne pulled off her glasses. She didn't want to see.
She didn't want to hear either. Instead she stood up blindly
and put out her hand in the direction of the door.
'That's what the note said,' said Adam Stubo. '"You've
got what you deserved." Do you still think this is none of
your business?'

'Let me go. Let me out of here.'
She shuffled towards the door and fumbled for the
handle, with her glasses still in her left hand.
'Of course,' she heard in the distance. 'I'll get Oscar to
drive you home. Thank you for coming.'

11



Emilie couldn't understand why Kim had been allowed
to go. It was unfair. She had come first, so she should
be the first one to go. And Kim had got a Coke whereas she
had to drink tepid milk and water that tasted of metal.
Everything tasted of metal. The food. Her mouth. She
chewed and sucked her own tongue. It tasted like money,
coins that had been in someone's pocket for a long time. A
long, long time. Long before she had come here. Too long.
Daddy wasn't looking for her any more. Daddy must have
given up. And Mummy wasn't in Heaven, she was ashes
and dust in an urn and didn't exist any more. It was so
bright. Emilie rubbed her eyes and tried to shut out the
sharp glare from the strip light. She could sleep. She slept
nearly all the time. It was best that way. Then she could
dream. And in any case, she had nearly stopped eating. Her
stomach had shrunk and there wasn't even room for tomato
soup any more. The man got angry when he collected the
still full bowls. Not really angry, just irritated.
Kim had been allowed to go home.
That was unfair and Emilie couldn't understand why.





12



Adam Stubo had to pull himself together not to touch
the naked body. His hand was reaching out towards the
boy's calf. He wanted to stroke the smooth skin. He wanted
to make sure that there was no life left in the boy. The way
the boy was lying - on his back with closed eyes, his head
to one side, his arms alongside his body, one hand slightly
closed and the other open with the palm facing up, as if he
was waiting for something, a gift, some sweets - the child
could so easily have been alive. The section from the
autopsy, which went across his breastbone and down to just
above his small penis in the shape of a T, had been carefully
closed. The paleness of his face was due to the time of
year; winter was just over and summer had not yet begun.
The boy's mouth was half open. Stubo realised that he
wanted to kiss the child. He wanted to breathe life into the
boy. He wanted to ask for forgiveness.
'Shit,' he said, choking, into his hand. 'Shit, shit.'
The pathologist looked at him over the rims of his
glasses.
'You never get used to it, do you?'
Adam Stubo didn't answer. His knuckles were white and
he sniffed gently.
'I'm done,' said the pathologist, pulling off his latex
gloves. 'A lovely little child. Five years old. You may well
say shit. But it won't help much.'
Stubo wanted to look away, but couldn't. He carefully
lowered his right hand to the boy's face. It was as if the

child was smiling. Stubo let his index finger touch the face,
lightly, running it from the corner of the eye to the chin.
The skin was already waxy to touch; it felt like an ice-cold
shock to his fingertip.
'What happened?'
'You lot didn't find him in time,' said the pathologist
drily. 'Strictly speaking, that's what happened.'
He covered the body with a white sheet. It seemed even
smaller when covered. The body was so small, it seemed to
shrink under the stiff paper. The steel worktop was too big.
It was designed for an adult, someone who was responsible
for him or herself, who died of a heart attack, perhaps fatty
food and too many cigarettes, modern life and
unhealthy pleasures. It wasn't meant for children.
'Can we just drop the gags?' said Stubo quietly. 'We're
both affected by this. By ... '
He kept quiet while the pathologist washed his hands
thoroughly. It was a ceremony for him, as if he was trying to
rid himself of death with soap and water.
'You're right,' mumbled the doctor. 'Sorry. Let's get out
of here.'
His office was beside the autopsy room.
'Tell me,' said Adam Stubo, dropping down into a tired
two-seater sofa. 'I want all the details.'
The pathologist, a thin man of around sixty-five,
remained standing by his chair with an absent-minded,
slightly surprised look on his face. For a moment, it was as
if he couldn't remember what he was doing. Then he ran
his hand over his scalp and sat down.
'There aren't any.'
The office had no windows. But the air was fresh, nearly
cold, and surprisingly free of smells. The quiet buzz of the

ventilation system was drowned out by a distant ambulance
siren. Stubo felt closed in. There was nothing to give him
his bearings. No daylight, no shadows or shifting clouds to
tell him where he was.
'The subject was a five-year-old identified boy,' the
pathologist reeled off, as if reading from an invisible report.
'Healthy. Normal height, normal weight. No illnesses were
reported by his family, no illnesses were identified during
the autopsy. Inner organs healthy and intact. There is no
damage to the skeleton or connective tissue. Nor are there
any marks or signs of violence or inflicted injuries. The skin
is unbroken, with the exception of a graze on the right knee
that is obviously from an earlier date. At least a week old
and therefore inflicted before he disappeared.'
Stubo rubbed his face. The room was spinning. He
needed something to drink.
'Teeth are intact and healthy. A full set of milk teeth, with
the exception of the front tooth in the upper gum, which
must have fallen out a matter of hours before death
He hesitated and then rephrased it:
'Before little Kim died,' he finished quietly. 'In other
words . . . mors subita.'
'No known reason for death,' said Adam Stubo.
'Exactly. Though he did
The pathologist was red-eyed. His thin face reminded
Stubo of an old goat, especially as the man had a goatee that
made his face even longer.
'He did have some diazepam in his urine. Not much,
but
'As in . . . Valium? Was he poisoned?'
Stubo straightened his back and laid his arm along the
back of the sofa. He needed to hold on to something.
'No, not at all.'
The pathologist scratched his little beard with his index
finger.
'He was not poisoned. I am of the opinion, however, that
a healthy boy of five years should absolutely not be taking
medicine that contains diazepam, but all the same, there's
no question of poisoning. Of course, it's impossible to say
what kind of dose he was originally given, but at the time of
death, there were only traces left. In no way . . . '
He stroked his chin and squinted at Stubo.
' . . . enough to harm him. The body had got rid of most
of it already, unless he was only given a ridiculously small
amount. And I can't imagine what that would be good for.'
'Valium,' said Adam Stubo slowly, as if the word itself
held the secret, the explanation as to why a boy of five
could just die, for no apparent reason.
'Valium,' the pathologist repeated, equally slowly. 'Or
something else with the same substance.'
'But what is it used for?'
'Used for? You mean: what is diazepam used for?'
For the first time, the pathologist got a slightly irritated
look just above his eyes and he glanced over at the clock,
openly.
'Surely you know that. Nerves. It's widely used in hospitals
for pre-op purposes. Makes the patient drowsy. Calms
them down. Relaxes them. It's also given to patients with
epilepsy. To prevent severe convulsions. Both children and
adults. Kim didn't suffer from anything like that.'
'So why would anyone give a five-year-old . . . '
"I'll have to stop there for today, Stubo. I've actually
been working for eleven hours. You'll get a preliminary
report in the morning. The final report won't be ready for a
few weeks. Have to wait for all the results before I can
finish it. But, broadly speaking
He smiled. Had it not been for the expression in his
small, close eyes, Stubo might have suspected him of
enjoying all this.
'You've got a major problem. The boy simply died, just
like that. For no apparent reason. And that's it for today.'
He looked at the clock again, before taking off his white
lab coat and putting on a parka that had seen better days.
Then they were both through the door, he locked it with
two keys and then put a friendly hand on Stubo's shoulder.
'Good luck,' he said drily. 'You need it.'
As they passed the autopsy room on the way out, Adam
Stubo turned away. Fortunately it was pouring with rain
outside. He wanted to walk home, even though it would
take him well over an hour. It was 16 May. And past six
o'clock. In the distance he could hear a school band practising
the national anthem, out of time and out of tune.

13



Something had happened. The room seemed lighter. The
oppressive feeling of an old-fashioned sickroom was
gone. The metal bed had been pushed against the wall and
covered with a bright blanket and lots of colourful cushions.
Someone had carried in a wing chair. And in it sat a well
dressed Alvhild Sofienberg with her feet on a footstool. Her
slippers were just peeking out from underneath a blanket.
Someone had managed to breathe something that resembled
life into her grey wispy hair; a soft curl fell on to her forehead.
'You look so much younger,' exclaimed Johanne Vik.
'Alvhild, you look so well, sitting there.'
The window was wide open. Spring had finally come.
The National Day celebrations had left behind an early
summer feel that had lasted for a couple of days now. The
smell of old onions was not noticeable. Instead, Johanne
breathed in the smell of damp earth from the garden outside.
An old man had raised his hand to his cloth hat as she
crossed the yard. A good neighbour, explained Alvhild
Sofienberg. Gardening was his hobby. He couldn't bear
seeing the garden going to seed when she was ill. Her smile
was softer at the edges now.
'To tell you the truth, I hadn't expected to see you
again,' she said, drily. 'You didn't seem very comfortable
when you were here last. But I can understand why. I really
wasn't well. In fact, to be honest, I was very ill.'
She tossed her head, a gesture that she immediately rectified.
'I am still seriously ill. Don't be fooled. The strange
thing is that I feel as if death has been standing over there
by the wardrobe waiting for several weeks, but now has
suddenly gone for a wander and disappeared. Maybe he's
busy with other people at the moment. I'm sure he'll be
back soon. Coffee?'
'Yes, please. Black. I can get it myself, only
Johanne started to get up. Alvhild's look made her sit
down again.
'I'm not dead yet,' she said tersely. 'Here.'
She poured some coffee from a thermos on the table
beside her and handed the cup to Johanne. The porcelain
was beautiful, nearly transparent. The coffee was pretty
thin too.
'Sorry about the coffee,' said Alvhild. 'It's my stomach.
It's not up to much. And to what do I owe the honour?'
It was incredible. When Johanne had decided to go and
visit the old lady once more, she hadn't been certain
whether she would find her alive.
'I've found Aksel Seier,' she said.
'Oh, you have?'
Alvhild Sofienberg lifted her cup to her mouth, as if she
wanted to hide her curiosity. The movement irritated
Johanne, in a way she couldn't quite explain. 'Yes. I haven't
found him in person, if you see what I mean, but I know
where he is. Where he lives. Well, that is to say, it wasn't
actually me that found him, but my . . . Well, Aksel Seier
lives in the USA.'
'The USA?'
Alvhild put her cup down again, without having touched
the contents.
'How . . . what is he doing there?'
'I have absolutely no idea!'
Alvhild put her hand to her mouth, as if she was frightened
to show her teeth. Johanne sipped the light-brown
liquid in the blue porcelain.
'At first when I found out, I was surprised that anyone
with a record would be given an entry visa to the US,' she
continued. 'They are incredibly strict about things like that.
Then it dawned on me that perhaps the rules were different
at the end of the sixties, when he went over. But they
weren't. Aksel Seier is in fact an American citizen.'
'That wasn't mentioned at all when . . . '
'No, I'm sure it wasn't. But that's not so strange. He was
born in the USA, on a trip his parents made in connection
with a short-lived and disastrous attempt to emigrate. He
kept his American citizenship, though he was of course
Norwegian as well. There was no reason whatsoever to
make a point of this during his trial. Or subsequent appeal.
He was presumably only asked in summary if he was
Norwegian. And he was. Or rather, is.'
Alvhild Sofienberg was astounded. There was a sudden
quiet in the room and Johanne jumped when the door
opened and the man in the hat popped his head round.
'That's it for today,' he grumbled. 'What a mess. Don't
know that I'll be able to train those roses. And the rhododendrons
have seen their best days, Mrs Sofienberg. Well,
good afternoon.'
He withdrew without waiting for an answer. It was
cooler in the room. The open window started to rattle and
Alvhild Sofienberg looked as if she was about to fall asleep.
Johanne went over to close the window.
'I was thinking about going to see him,' she said lightly.
'Do you think he'd like that? Do you think he'd welcome
a visitor? A complete stranger, an academic from the old

country?'
'Difficult to say. But it is an interesting case. In terms of
my project, it is the clearest, most... To get Aksel Seier to
talk would be so important for my research.'
'I see,' said the old lady. 'I don't quite . . . quite understand
exactly what it is you are doing. With your research.'
When Johanne was first contacted by Alvhild
Sofienberg, through a colleague who knew Alvhild's daughter
personally, she had got the impression that the old lady
had only a superficial knowledge of what she was doing.
Alvhild had never asked. Had never shown any interest in
the project. She was living on borrowed time and had used
her failing energy to get Johanne interested in her case, the
story of Aksel Seier. Everything else was superfluous. She
would soon be seventy and did not want to waste time
showing false interest in other people's work.
There was fresh colour in her cheeks, she didn't look ill at
all and certainly not tired. Johanne pulled her chair closer.
'My starting point is ten murder cases from the period
1950 to 1960,' she said, stirring the thin coffee for no reason.
'All the defendants claimed they were innocent. None of
them changed their plea while serving their sentence. As
far as they were concerned, they were innocent. My aim is
not to find out whether they were telling the truth or not,
but rather to compare and contrast the fate of these people
while they were serving their sentence and in relation to
any appeals, retrials and subsequent release. In brief, my
aim is to establish the extent to which external interest is
important to how the legal system deals with such cases. As
you know, Fredrik Fasting Torgersen, for example,
was . . . '
Johanne smiled bashfully. Alvhild Sofienberg was an
adult when the Torgersen case was heard. Johanne was not
even born.
'Sentenced to life for the murder of a young woman. He
has persistently pleaded innocent for over forty years. To
this day, other people, who initially at least were complete
strangers to him, have continued to fight tirelessly for him.
Jens Bjorneboe, for example, and . . . '
Again she blushed and held back.
'But of course, you know all of this,' she said quietly.
Alvhild nodded and smiled. She said nothing.
'I guess I want to try to say something about two things,'
continued Johanne. 'First, do cases that get a lot of attention
have any particular common features? Are they
particularly weak, in terms of proof? Or is it the defendant's
- subsequently the convict's - personality that makes
the case more interesting to others? What sort of role does
media coverage play in terms of the investigation and legal
proceedings? In other words, is it purely arbitrary whether
a case falls from public view the moment the judgment is
made, or if it continues to attract interest, year after year?'
She noticed that she had raised her voice.
'Then,' she continued, in a quieter voice, 'I want to look
at the consequences of a case being kept alive in the public
interest. To be cynical and in purely legal terms, Torgersen,
for example, has hardly reaped much joy from all the support
he has had. Of course, I understand . . . '
Johanne noticed the intense interest in Alvhild's face. It
was as if the old woman had galvanised all her energy, her
back was straight as a courtier's, and she barely blinked.
Johanne went on:
'Of course, I understand that on a personal, human level,
it must be of great importance to know that someone out
there actually believes you
'At least, if you are innocent,' Alvhild interrupted. 'But
we don't know that in Torgersen's case.'
'Of course, that's a valid point. In general, I mean. But
not in terms of my research. I have to look at the actual consequences
of external interest.'
'Fantastic,' said Alvhild to no one in particular. Johanne
was not entirely sure what she was referring to.
'Don't you think it's strange,' she said thoughtfully, to fill
the silence. 'I mean, isn't it peculiar that the Aksel Seier
case just died once he'd been sentenced, when several
papers were extremely critical of the legal proceedings?
Why did they just drop the case? Was it something to do
with the man himself? Was there something disagreeable
about his personality? Did he refuse to cooperate with journalists
that meant him well? Is Aksel Seier really just... a
bastard? Who no one really cared about in the end? I would
get a lot out of talking to the man.'
The door opened quietly.
'Is everything all right?' asked the nurse and continued
without waiting for a reply. 'You've been sitting in that chair
for too long now, Mrs Sofienberg. It's time for you to lie down
again. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask your friend to ...'
'I can do that myself, thank you.'
Alvhild pursed her lips again and lifted her hand to stop
the white-clad woman.
'Would it not be wise to write to him first?'
Johanne Vik got up and popped the unused notebook
back in her handbag.
'In some situations I choose not to write letters,' she said
slowly, putting her bag on her shoulder.

'And those are?'
The nurse had opened the bed covers and was about to
roll the monstrous metal construction out on to the floor.
'When I'm afraid of not getting a reply,' said Johanne.
'No reply is an answer in itself. Nothing means "no". I
don't dare risk that. Not from Aksel Seier. I'm flying out on
Monday. I . . . '
The nurse caught her eye.
'Yes, yes,' mumbled Johanne. 'I'll leave now. Maybe I'll
phone you, Alvhild. From America. If I have anything to
tell, that is. I hope that everything is fine . . . well, as good
as it can be in the meantime.'
Without thinking, she bent over the old lady and gave
her a gentle kiss on the cheek. Her skin felt dry and cold.
Once she was well out of the house, she used her tongue to
moisten her lips again. They tasted of nothing; just dry.



14



Emilie had been given a present. A Barbie doll with hair
that was curled up inside her head so you could pull it
out and then wind it back in with a key on her neck. The
doll had nice clothes, a pink sequinned dress that came in
the same box as the doll and a set of cowboy clothes as an
extra present. Emilie played with the cowboy hat. Barbie
was lying on the bed beside her with her legs splayed. She
didn't have a Barbie doll at home. Mummy didn't like toys
like that. Nor did Daddy, and in any case, Emilie was too
big for things like that now. At least, that's what Auntie
Beate said.
Auntie Beate was probably angry with Daddy now. She
probably thought it was his fault that Emilie had disappeared.
Even though she was only walking home from
school, like she had so many times before without anyone
coming and stealing her away. Daddy couldn't keep an eye
on her all the time. Even Auntie Beate had said that.
'Daddy
'I can be your daddy.'
The man was standing in the doorway. He must be mad.
Emilie knew a lot about mad people. Torill down the road
in number fourteen was so mad that she had to go to hospital
all the time. Her children had to live with their
grandparents because their mum sometimes thought she
was a cannibal. And then she would light a bonfire in the
garden and want to roast Guttorm and Gustav on spits.
Once Torill rang the bell in the middle of the night; Emilie

woke up and followed Daddy down to see who it was.
Guttorm and Gustav's mother was standing there stark
naked, with red stripes all over her body, and wanted to
borrow the freezer. Emilie was hurried off to bed and didn't
really know what happened next, but it was a long, long
time until anyone saw Torill again.
'You're not my daddy,' whispered Emilie. 'My daddy is
called Tonnes. You don't even look like him.'
The man looked at her. His eyes were scary, even
though he had quite a nice face. He must be mad.
Pettersen in the green block was mad in a different way
from Torill. Mummy used to say that Torill wouldn't hurt a
fly, but it was different with Pettersen in the green block.
Emilie thought it wasn't quite true to say that Torill wouldn't
hurt a fly when she actually wanted to roast her own
children on a fire. But Pettersen was worse, all the same.
He had been to prison for messing around with young children.
Emilie knew what messing around meant. Auntie
Beate had told her.
'I'm sure we'll be friends one day,' said the man, and
grabbed the Barbie doll. 'Were you pleased to get this?'

Emilie didn't answer. It was difficult to breathe in here.
Maybe she had used up all the air; something was pressing
on her chest and she was dizzy all the time. People need
oxygen. When you breathe you use up the oxygen so the air
becomes empty and useless, in a way. That's what Auntie
Beate had explained to her. That was why it was so horrible
to hide under a duvet. After a while you just had to lift up
a corner to get some oxygen. Even though it was a big
room, she had been there a long time. It felt like years. She
lifted her face and gasped for air.
The mad man smiled. He obviously had no problem

breathing. Maybe it was just her, maybe she was going to
die. Maybe the man had poisoned her because he wanted
to mess around with her afterwards. Emilie gasped desperately
for air.
'Have you got asthma?' asked the man.
'No,' gasped Emilie.
'Try lying down.'
'No!'
If only she could relax and think about something completely
different from the man with the scary eyes, then
maybe she could breathe.
But she couldn't think about anything else.
She closed her eyes and leaned back, her upper back
propped against the wall. There were no more thoughts.
Nothing. Daddy had probably given up looking for her.
'Go to sleep.'
The man left. Emilie locked her fingers around the stiff
Barbie doll. She would rather have had a bear. Even if she
was too old for that, too.
Now that she was on her own again, she could at least
breathe.
The man had not messed around with her. Emilie
pulled up the duvet and eventually fell asleep.
Tonnes Selbu was alone at last. It was as if he no longer had
his own life. As if nothing was his any more, not even time.
The house was constantly full of people, neighbours,
friends, Beate, the parents. The police. They obviously
thought that it was easier for him to talk to them here at
home. Whereas in fact it would be a relief to go to the
police station, an escape. He wasn't even allowed to go to
the shop. Beate and Crete's old friends did everything.
Yesterday his mother-in-law had even run a bath for him.
He had lowered himself into the scalding-hot water and
half expected some woman or other to appear out of
nowhere to wash his back. Scrub him. He lay in the water
until it was tepid. Then Beate shouted for him. She eventually
banged on the door, worried.
He had lost control of his own time.
Now he was alone. They wouldn't leave him in peace,
the others. He had got very angry. In the end. A great rage
had forced everyone out of the door. It felt good because it
reminded him that he still existed.
He put his hand on the door handle.
Emilie's room.
He hadn't been in since that first afternoon, when the
child disappeared and he turned her room upside down
trying to find a clue, a trace, a code that might tell him
Emilie was only joking. She had gone too far, of course, but
it was all just an attempt to fool him, frighten him a bit so
that they could have an extra-special evening, safe in the
knowledge that Emilie would never actually disappear. He
emptied her drawers. Her books landed on the floor, her
clothes in a pile in the hall outside. He even pulled off the
bedclothes and tore a poster of Disneyland down from the
wall. It was no mystery, no rebus; there was neither answer
nor clue. Nothing to be solved. Emilie was gone and he
rang the police.
The cold metal burnt against the palm of his hand. He
heard his own heart hammering in his eardrums, as if he
didn't really know what he would find behind the familiar
door with Emilie's name on it, spelt out in wooden letters;
the M had fallen off half a year ago and he read E-ilie, Eilie.
Tomorrow he would buy a new M.
Beate had tidied the room. When he eventually went in,
he saw that everything was back in place. The books were
standing neatly on the shelves, according to colour, the way
Emilie liked. Even her satchel, which the police had
seized, was back in place, on the floor beside the desk.
The police thought it was his fault.
But they weren't accusing him of anything. In the first
few days, he'd felt a bit like a psychiatric patient, on the
one hand, who everyone treated with kid gloves, and on
the other like a criminal who everyone suspected. It was as
if they were constantly frightened that he'd take his own
life and therefore watched him with almost suffocating
care. At the same time there was something about the way
they looked at him; a sharp edge to the questions they
asked.
Then the little boy disappeared.
And they changed their tune, the police. It was as if they
finally understood that his despair was genuine.
Then they found the little boy.
When two of the policemen came to tell him that the
boy was dead, he felt like he was sitting an exam. As if,
unless he answered exactly what they wanted and the
expression on his face was suitable for such an occasion, it
would be his fault that Kim Sande Oksoy had been killed.
Such an occasion?
They had asked him to make a list. Of everyone he had
ever known or met. He was to start with his family and closest
friends. Then the more peripheral people, good and not
so good friends, ex-girlfriends and one-night stands, colleagues
and colleagues' wives. It was impossible.
'This is impossible,' he'd said, throwing up his hands.
He had gone as far back as secondary school and couldn't
remember the names of more than four school friends. 'Is it
really necessary?'
The policewoman had been patient.
'We've asked Kim's parents to do the same,' she said in
a calm voice. 'Then we can compare. See if you have any
mutual acquaintances. Or if you ever had. It's not only necessary,
it's very important. We think that these cases are
connected, so it is important to find a common link
between the families.'
Tonnes Selbu ran his hand over Emilie's bed, over the
letters she had written in felt pen on the blond wood when
she was learning the alphabet. He wanted to bury his face
in her pyjamas. It was impossible. He couldn't bear to smell
her.
He wanted to lie down in Emilie's bed. He couldn't do
it. He couldn't get up either. He ached all over. Maybe he
should ring Beate after all. Maybe someone should come,
someone to fill the empty space around him.
Tonnes Selbu stayed sitting on the edge of his daughter's
bed. He prayed, intensely and continuously. Not to
God - he was an unfamiliar figure he only used in the fairy
tales he told to Emilie. Instead, he prayed to his dead wife.
He hadn't looked after Emilie well enough, as he had
promised Grete, in the hours before she died.


15
and he had to close his eyes, even though he was scared.
Then he put his glove back on, climbed back over the
fence and walked off down the short road, without looking
back.




A man approached the terraced house. The red and
white tape that the police had put up had not been
removed yet, but had loosened here and there. The night
wind made the tired plastic wheeze at the man who slowly
climbed over the fence and hid in the bushes. He seemed
to know what he wanted to do, but wasn't quite sure if he
dared to. If anyone had seen him, the first thing they would
have remarked on was his clothes. He was wearing a thick,
polo-neck sweater under a down jacket. He had a big hat on
his head, with earflaps and a peak that hung down over his
eyes. The boots would have been more appropriate for a
soldier fighting a winter war, enormous and black with laces
far up the lower leg. A pair of coarse woollen socks stuck up
over the top.
It was the night of 19 May and a mild south-westerly
wind had brought warmer temperatures of around fourteen
degrees with it. It was twenty to twelve. The man
stood in the cover of a gooseberry bush and two half
grown birch trees. Then he pulled off one of his gloves.
Slowly he pushed his right hand down into his wide camouflage
trousers. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on a
window on the ground floor, where the curtains were
drawn, which they weren't supposed to be. He wanted to
see the green teddy bear. The man didn't have time to get
annoyed about it, with a groan he went loose at the hips.
He pulled his hand out of his trousers. He stood completely
still for a couple of minutes. His ears were buzzing

16



It was already late when Johanne got up on Saturday 20
May. At least, for Kristiane. The child woke up at the crack
of dawn, weekdays and weekends alike. Though the sixyear-old
obviously liked being on her own first thing in the
morning, she had no concept of how to avoid waking her
mother. Johanne's alarm clock was a rhythmical dam-di-rum~
ram from the sitting room. But Kristiane wanted nothing to
do with her. From six o'clock until eight, she was incommunicado.
When Johanne went back to work again, once
Kristiane's illness was no longer life-threatening, it had been
a complete nightmare getting the girl ready for nursery every
morning. In the end, she gave up. Kristiane just had to be left
to her own devices for those two hours. The university was a
flexible employer. And what's more, when she had applied to
teach only every second term, this favour had been granted
until Kristiane was ten. Her friends envied her - enjoy it
while you can, was their advice; you can read the papers in
peace and wake up properly before starting your day. The
problem was that Kristiane had to be watched. Who knew
what she might get up to? Johanne knew that Isak was more
laid-back. She had found him fast asleep on a couple of occasions,
with Kristiane pottering about on her own.
And now she had done exactly the same.
She looked over at her watch, confused. Quarter to nine.
She threw back the duvet.
'Mummy,' Kristiane said cheerfully. 'Mummy's getting
up for her Kristiane.'
The girl was standing in the doorway to the sitting room,
already dressed. Albeit in a ghastly pink sweater she'd been
given by her grandmother and a pair of green velvet trousers,
with a tartan skirt on top. Her hair was done up in five plaits.
But she did have clothes on, so Johanne tried to smile.
'Well done, you've got dressed all by yourself,' she said
sleepily. 'Mummy must have slept in.'
'Slept in kept in.'
Kristiane came closer and then crept up into her
mother's lap. She laid her cheek on her breast and started to
suck her thumb. Johanne gently stroked her daughter's
back with her right hand, up and down, up and down.
When they sat like this, these moments of intimacy that
were impossible to force or predict, Johanne could hardly
breathe. She felt her daughter's warmth through the pink
sweater, drank in the sweet smell of her hair, her breath, her
skin. It was all she could do not to crush her.
'My little Kristiane,' she whispered into the plaits.
The telephone rang. Kristiane pulled back, slipped
down from her mother's lap and padded out of the room.
'Hello?'
'Did I wake you?'
'Of course you didn't wake me, Mother. I've got
Kristiane here this week.'
Johanne tried to reach hold of her dressing gown. The
telephone lead wasn't long enough. She wrapped the duvet
round her shoulders instead. There was a draught from the
windows.
'Your father is worried.'
Johanne wanted to snap: You are the one who's worried.
She checked herself with a resigned sigh and tried to sound
cheerful.


'Oh? Worried about me? There's no need for that.'
'What about your behaviour the other day? On TV no
less ... In fact, he even lies awake at night and wonders . . .
Is everything all right, dear?'
'Let me talk to Dad.'
'Your father? He ... He's busy at the moment. But listen
to me, dear. We thought that maybe a short break would do
you good. You've had a lot on recently, what with Kristiane
and work and . . . Do you want to come with us to the cottage
today? I'm sure you can get time off on Monday and
maybe even Tuesday too. You and your father could go fishing
and we could go for some lovely walks . . . And I've
already spoken to Isak and he's happy to have Kristiane
from today
'You've spoken to Isak?'
It was great that she and Isak had a good relationship
when it came to Kristiane. And she realised that everyone,
not least their daughter, benefited from the fact that Isak
also got on well with his ex-in-laws. But there were limits.
She had a suspicion that he dropped by to see them every
week, with or without Kristiane.
'Yes, gosh! He's thinking about buying a new yacht, did
you know? Not just a racing boat this time, he said he was
getting a bit bored of. . . well, of course, it's got something
to do with Kristiane, as well. She just loves being on the
water, and those fast sailing boats are not particularly suitable
for children. He was here yesterday and we talked
about you, you know, about how worrie--'
'Mum!'
'What, dear?'
'There's no need to be worried. I am absolutely fine.
And anyway, I'm going . . . '

If she told her mother that she was going to the States,
she would get no peace at all, just endless advice on travel
routes and precautions. Her mother would end up packing
her suitcase for her.
'Mum, I'm a bit busy right now. I'm afraid I haven't got
time to come to the cottage, but thanks anyway. Give my
love to Dad.'
'But Johanne, could you not at least come over and see
us tonight? I could make something nice to eat and then
you and your father could play . . . '
'I thought you were going to the cottage.'
'Only if you wanted to come with us, dear.'
'Bye, Mum.'
She made sure that she put the receiver down calmly
and carefully. Her mother often accused her of hanging up.
She was right, but it was better if it wasn't slammed down.

Having a shower helped. Kristiane sat on the toilet seat and
talked to Sulamit, a fire engine with a face and eyes that
blinked. Sulamit was nearly as old as Kristiane and had lost
a ladder and three wheels. No one apart from Kristiane
knew how it got its name.
'Sulamit has saved a horse and an elephant today. Good
Sulamit.'
Johanne brushed her wet hair and tried to wipe the
steam off the mirror.
'What happened to the horse and the elephant?' she
asked.
'Sulamit and dynamit. Elephant and pelephant.'
Johanne went back to the bedroom and pulled on a pair of
jeans and a red fleece. Thankfully she had done all the shopping
for the weekend yesterday, before collecting Kristiane

from nursery. They could go for a long walk. Kristiane
needed to be out for a few hours if she was going to be quiet
in the evening. The weather looked good; she pulled back
the bedroom curtains and squinted at the day outside.
The doorbell rang.
'Bloody hell, Mum!'
'Bloody hell,' repeated Kristiane seriously.
Johanne stamped out into the hall and pulled open the
front door.
'Morning,' said Adam Stubo.
'Hi...'
'Hallo,' said Kristiane, sticking her head out from behind
her mum's thighs, with a big smile.
'You're looking very nice today!'
Adam Stubo held his hand out to the little girl.
Amazingly, she took it.
'My name is Adam,' he said solemnly. 'And what are you
called?'
'Kristiane Vik Aanonsen. Good morning. Good night. I

have a kite.'
'Oh . . . can I see it?'
Kristiane showed him Sulamit. When he wanted to hold
the fire engine, she pulled back.
'I think that's the best kite I have ever seen,' he said.
The child vanished.
'I was in the neighbourhood, so I thought
He shrugged. The obvious lie made his eyes narrow into
an almost flirty smile. Johanne was caught off guard by a
strange jabbing feeling, a breathlessness that made her look
down and mumble that he'd better come in.
'It's not exactly tidy here,' she said automatically as she
registered his eyes swooping over the living room.
He sat down in the sofa. It was too deep and soft for a
man as heavy as Adam Stubo. His knees were pushed up
too high and it almost looked as if he was sitting on the
floor.
'Maybe you'd be more comfortable in a chair,' she suggested,
removing a picture book from the seat.
'I'm comfortable here, thanks,' he said. It was only now
that she realised that he had a large envelope with him,
which he placed in front of him on the coffee table.
'I just. . . '
She made a vague gesture towards Kristiane's room. It
was the same problem every time. As Kristiane looked
like - and sometimes behaved like - a normal, healthy fouryear-old,
Johanne was always uncertain whether she should
say anything. Whether she should explain that the girl was
small for her age and was in fact six and brain-damaged, but
no one seemed to know how or why. Or explain that all the
strange babblings that came out of her daughter's mouth
were due to neither stupidity nor impudence, but rather a
short circuit that no doctor could repair. Normally she
waited too long. It was as if she hoped for a miracle every
time. That her daughter would be rational. Logical.
Coherent. Or that she would suddenly develop an obvious
deformity - a lolling tongue or squinting eyes in a flat face
that made everyone smile with warm understanding.
Instead it was just awkward.
Kristiane settled down to watch 101 Dalmatians in her
mother's study.
'I don't usually
Again she made that vague, apologetic gesture towards
the room where her daughter was sitting.
'No problem,' said the policeman in the sofa. 'I have to
admit that I sometimes do the same. With my grandson, I
mean. He can be pretty demanding. The video is a good
babysitter. Sometimes.'
Johanne felt the red flushing over her face and went out
into the kitchen. Adam Stubo was a grandfather.
'Why did you come here?' she asked when she returned
with a cup of coffee that she put down in front of him, with
a serviette underneath. 'That "in the neighbourhood"
explanation isn't really true, is it?'
'It's this case of ours.'
'Cases.'
He smiled.
'Correct. Cases. You're right. At least... I feel that you
can help me. It's as simple as that. Don't ask me why.
Sigmund Berli, a good friend and colleague, can't understand
why I am pursuing you in this way.'
His eyes narrowed again in a way that had to be flirting.
Johanne concentrated hard on not blushing again. Cakes.
She didn't have any cakes. Biscuits. Kristiane had eaten
them all yesterday.
'Do you take milk?'
She started to get up before he indicated otherwise with
his right hand.
'Listen,' he started again, pulling out a pile of photographs
from the envelope on the coffee table. 'This is Emilie Selbu.'
The photo was of a pretty little girl with a garland of
coltsfoot in her hair. She was very serious and her deep
blue eyes looked almost mournful. There was a small
hollow at the base of her thin neck. Her mouth was small,
with full lips.
'The picture is very recent. Taken about three weeks
ago. Lovely kid, isn't she?'
'Is she the one they haven't found?'
She coughed as her voice gave way.
'Yes. And this is Kim.'
Johanne held the photograph right up to her eyes. It was
the same one that they had shown on TV. A boy clutching
a red fire engine. Red fire engine. Sulamit. She dropped
the picture quickly and had to pick it up from the floor
before pushing it back to Adam Stubo.
'As Emilie is still missing and Kim is . . . What on earth
makes you think that the crimes were carried out by the
same person?'
'I've been asking myself the same question.'
There were several photographs in the pile. For a
moment it seemed that he intended to show them all to
her. Then he clearly changed his mind and put the rest
back in the envelope. The photos of Emilie and Kim
remained on the table, side by side, both facing Johanne.
'Emilie was abducted on a Thursday,' he said slowly. 'In
the middle of the day. Kim disappeared on Tuesday night.
Emilie is nine years old and a girl. Kim was a five-year-old
boy. Emilie lives in Asker. Kim lived in Bserum. Kim's
father is a plumber and his mother is a nurse. Emilie's
mother is dead and her father is a linguist who earns a living
translating literature. None of them know each other.
We've hunted high and low to see if there are any connections
between the two families. Apart from discovering that
Emilie's father and Kim's mother both lived in Bergen for a
while at the start of the nineties, there's nothing. They
didn't even know each other there. All in all... '
'Strange,' said Johanne.
'Yes. Or tragic. Depending on how you choose to look at
it.'
She tried to avoid looking at the photographs of the two
children. It was as if they were reproaching her for not
wanting to get involved.
'In Norway there's always some kind of connection
between people,' she said. 'Especially when you live as
close together as Asker and Baerum. You must have experienced
that yourself. I mean, when you sit down and start
talking to someone. You nearly always have a mutual
acquaintance, an old friend, somewhere you've both
worked, an experience in common. It's true, isn't it?'
'Urn, yes
He paused. He seemed uninterested. Then he suddenly
took a deep breath as if he were about to protest, but
stopped himself.
'I need someone to construct a profile,' he said instead.
'A profiler.'
His English pronunciation was broad, like an American
TV series.
'Hardly,' Johanne interjected. The conversation was
heading in a direction she did not like. 'If you are to going
to benefit at all from a profiler, you need more cases than
this. Assuming that we are actually dealing with one and
the same person.'
'God forbid,' said Adam Stubo. 'That there should be
more cases, I mean.'
'Obviously I agree with you on that. But it's more or less
impossible to draw any conclusions based on two cases.'
'How do you know that?'
'Elementary logic,' she replied sharply. 'It's obvious . . .
The profile of an unknown criminal is based on the known
common features of his crimes. It's like one of those dot-to
dot drawings. Your pencil follows the numbered points

80
until there is a clear picture. It doesn't work with only two
points. You need more. And on that point, you are
absolutely right: let's hope and pray that it doesn't happen.
That more points appear, I mean.'
'What makes you say that?'
'Why do you insist that this is one and not two cases?'
'I don't think it's any coincidence that you chose to
study psychology and law. An unusual combination. You
must have had a plan. A goal.'
'Complete coincidence, in fact. A result of youthful fickleness.
And I also wanted to go to the States. And you
know
She discovered that she was biting her hair. As discreetly
as possible, she pushed the wet lock of hair behind her ear
and straightened her glasses.
'I think you're wrong. Emilie Selbu and little Kim were
not abducted by the same man.'
'Or woman.'
'Or woman,' she repeated, exasperated. 'But now, however
rude it may be, I'm going to have to ask you to ... I
have quite a lot I need to do today, because I'm . . . Sorry.'
Again she felt that pressure on her lungs; it was impossible
to look at the man on the sofa. He got up from his
uncomfortable position with remarkable ease.
'If it happens again,' he said, gathering up the photographs.
'If another child is taken, will you help me then?'
Cruella de Vil screeched from the study. Kristiane
shrieked with delight.
'I don't know,' said Johanne Vik. 'We'll see.'

As it was Saturday and the project was going according to
plan, he treated himself to a glass of wine. When he


thought about it, he realised that it was the first time for
months that he'd had alcohol. Normally, he was worried
about the effects. A glass or two made him docile. Then
halfway through the third he would get angry. Fury waited
at the bottom of the fourth glass.
Just one glass. It was still light outside and he held the
wine up to the light.
Emilie was difficult. Ungrateful. Even though he
wanted to keep the girl alive, for the moment at least, there
were limits.
He took a sip. It tasted musty; the wine tasted of cellars.
He had to smile at his own sentimentality. He was just
too emotional. He was too kind. Why should Emilie live?
What was the point? What had the girl actually done to
deserve that? She got food, good food, often. She had clean
water in the tap. She even had a Barbie doll that he had
bought for her and yet she didn't seem to be any happier.
Fortunately she'd stopped snivelling. To begin with, and
particularly after Kim disappeared, she cried the minute he
opened the door down there. She seemed to be having difficulties
breathing, which was nonsense. He had installed a
proper ventilation system ages ago. There was no point in
suffocating the child. But she was calmer now. At least she
didn't cry.
The decision to let Emilie live had come naturally. He
hadn't intended it to be that way, from the start, at least.
But there was something about her, even though she didn't
know it herself. He'd see how long it lasted. She'd have to
watch herself. He was sentimental, but he had his limits.
She'd be getting company soon enough.
He put down the glass and pictured eight-year-old Sarah
Baardsen. He had memorised her face, stored each feature
in his mind, practised putting her face together so he could
call her up at will, whenever and wherever. He didn't have
any pictures. They could fall into the wrong hands. Instead
he had studied her in the playground, on the way to her
grandmother's, on the bus. He'd once even sat next to her
through an entire film. He knew what her hair smelt like.
Sweet and warm.
He put the cork back in the bottle and left it on one of
the half-empty shelves in the kitchen. When he glanced
out of the window, he stiffened. Right outside, only a few
metres away, stood a fully grown roe deer. The beautiful
animal lifted its head and looked right at him for a moment
before sauntering off towards the woods to the west. Tears
came to his eyes.
Sarah and Emilie were sure to get on, for the time they
were together.

17



Boston's Logan International Airport was one enormous
building site. It smelt damp under the low ceiling and
the dust lay thick. Everywhere she looked, warning signs
screamed out at her, black writing on a red background.
Watch out for the cables on the floor, the beams hanging
loose from the walls and the tarpaulins hiding cement
mixers and materials. P^our planes from Europe had landed
in under half an hour. The queue in front of passport control
was long, and Johanne Vik attempted to read a paper
she had already read from front to back while she waited.
Every now and then she would push her hand luggage forward
with her foot. A Frenchman in a dark camel coat
poked her in the back each time she waited a couple of seconds
too long before moving.
Lina had turned up the evening before with three bottles
of wine and two new CDs. Kristiane had been safely
delivered to Isak and her best friend was right, Johanne did
not need to worry about tomorrow as she didn't have to be
at Gardemoen Airport until midday. And there was no point
in going to work first. Lina's wine disappeared, along with
a quarter bottle of cognac and two Irish coffees. When the
airport express train rolled into the platform at the new
international airport on the morning of 22 May, Johanne
had to dash to the toilet to rid herself of the remains of a
very good night. It would be a long journey.
Fortunately she had fallen asleep somewhere over
Greenland.
Finally it was her turn to show her passport. She tried to
hide her mouth. The cloying taste of sleep and an old hangover
made her uncertain. The passport inspector took
longer than was necessary; he looked at her, stared down,
hesitated. Then he finally stamped the necessary documentation
in her passport with a resigned thump. She was
waved in to the USA.
Normally it was so different. Coming to America was
usually like taking off a rucksack. The feeling of freedom
was tangible, she felt lighter, younger, happier. Now she
shivered in the bitter wind and couldn't remember where the bus stop was. Instead of hiring a car at Logan, she had
decided to take the bus to Hyannis. There was a Ford
Taurus waiting for her there, which meant she didn't need
to think about the traffic in Boston. If only she could find
the bloody bus stop. It was chaotic out here too, with temporary road diversions and provisional signs everywhere.
Despondency sank over her and she still felt a bit nauseous.
The cologne of the angry Frenchman clung to her clothes.
Two men were leaning against a dark car. They both had
baseball caps on and were wearing the characteristic rain
jacket. They didn't need to turn round for Johanne to know
that it said FBI in big, reflective letters on their broad
backs.
Johanne Vik had the same jacket herself. It was hanging
in her parents' cottage and was used only in pouring rain.
The F was half faded and the B had nearly disappeared.
The FBI men laughed. One stuffed a piece of chewing
gum into his mouth, then straightened his cap and opened
the car door for a woman in high heels who crossed the road
quickly. Johanne turned away. She had to hurry if she was
going to catch the bus. She still felt a bit ropy and sick and
hoped that she would sleep on the bus. If not, she would
have to find a place to stay overnight in Hyannis; she was
hardly in any state to drive in the dark.
Johanne started to run. Her suitcase bumped along on its
tiny wheels. Breathless, she handed her luggage to the
driver and climbed on board.
It struck her that she hadn't given Aksel Seier a single
thought since she left Gardemoen. She might even meet
him tomorrow. For some reason or another, she had built up
a picture of him. He was quite good-looking, but not particularly
tall. Maybe he had a beard. God knows if he would
want to see her. To travel to the States, more or less on a
whim, with no agreements, no actual information other
than an address in Harwichport and an old story about a
man who was convicted of something that he probably
didn't do - it was all so impulsive and unlike her that she
smiled at her reflection in the window. She was in the US.
In a way, she was home again.
She fell asleep before they had left the Ted Williams
Tunnel.
And her last thought was of Adam Stubo.

18



Johanne Vik could not remember what day it was when
she woke up on Tuesday morning.
The evening before, she had collected the car from
Barnstable Municipal Airport, which was no more than a
couple of small airstrips alongside a low, long terminal
building. The lady behind the Avis desk had given her
the keys and a slightly embarrassed yawn. It was still two
hours until midnight. Even though it would only take her
about half an hour to drive to the room she had booked in
Harwichport, she didn't want to chance it. So she checked
in at a motel in Hyannisport, five minutes from the airport.
She had a shower and then went for a walk in the
dark.
Down by the quay, the anticipation of summer was
tangible. Pubescent boys, who had been bored by an
uneventful winter, now cheered and laughed in the
night and waited for the town to explode. Children as
young as ten fled from their mothers and bedtime and
zigzagged between the bollards and old barrels on their
scooters. Memorial Day was only a few days off. The
population of Cape Cod would increase tenfold in the
course of one weekend and then remain constant until
September and Labor Day, and the start of another idle
winter season.
Johanne fumbled for her watch. It had fallen on to the
floor.
It was just gone six in the morning. She had slept only

for five hours. But she felt good all the same. She stood up
and pulled on a T-shirt that was too big, the one she normally
slept in. The air conditioning gave a strained sigh
and then was quiet. It must be about twenty-five degrees
in the room. The morning light poured in when she
opened the curtains. She looked to the south-west. The
express boat to Martha's Vineyard lay at the quay, newly
painted and white; there was an offshore breeze and the
mooring ropes were straining between the jetties and
boats. Beyond the ferry, in the shelter of a copse, was the
massive, grey Kennedy memorial. She had gone there last
night and sat on a bench looking out to sea. The night air
was already saturated with early summer, salty and sweet.
She sat with her back to the memorial, a huge stone wall
with an unimaginative copper relief in the middle. An
expressionless, dead president in profile, like on a coin - a
king on a gigantic coin.
'The king of America,' Johanne said to herself as she
connected her notebook to the Internet.
Only one email was worth the units: a drawing from
Kristiane. Three green figures in a circle. Kristiane,
Mummy and Daddy. The hands they were holding were
enormous, with fingers that were interwoven like roots on
a mangrove tree. In the middle of the circle stood a beast
with lots of teeth that Johanne found hard to identify at
first. Then she read the message from Isak.
'He's given the child a dog,' she groaned, logging off
abruptly.
When she got into the car just after nine, she felt resigned.
She had been away from home for just over twenty-four
hours and Isak had bought a dog. Kristiane would insist on
keeping the animal with her in the weeks when she stayed
with Johanne. And Johanne had absolutely no wish to have a
dog.
Isak could at least have asked.

Her irritation had in no way subsided. She followed Route
28 along the coast. It wove its way from small town to small
town, with sudden vistas of Nantucket Sound beyond the
marinas and river mist. The sun hurt her eyes. She stopped
at a garish tourist shop to buy a pair of cheap sunglasses.
She'd left her own prescription sunglasses at home in
Norway, so she had to choose between seeing very badly
without lenses or being blinded by the sharp light. The
shop assistant tried to tempt her to buy a cowboy hat - as if
there had ever been a cowboy within a mile of Yarmouth,
Massachusetts. She eventually gave in. Thirty dollars
straight in the bin, literally. She hoped that he wouldn't see
her stuffing the headgear into a green bin. The man didn't
have a right leg; he had presumably been nineteen and a
private in 1972.
Mid-Cape Highway would have been a more sensible
choice in every way, a four-lane motorway that divided the
peninsula down the middle. She suspected that she'd
chosen the coastal road to delay her arrival. Yesterday she
had smiled at her impetuousness. Today it was no longer
funny.
There seemed to be something wrong with the gearbox.
What should she say?
Isak could have made a mistake. He'd put his hand on
his heart and opened his eyes wide when she asked him for
guarantees. There must be more than one person called
Aksel Seier. Perhaps not that many, but some at least. Isak
might have got it wrong. Aksel Seier in Harwichport had
perhaps never lived in Oslo. Maybe he had never been in
prison either. Maybe he had'been in prison, but didn't want
to be reminded. He might have a family. A wife, children,
grandchildren who knew nothing about paterfamilias's past
behind lock and key. It wasn't fair just to rip open old
wounds. It wasn't fair on Aksel Seier. Yesterday she had
smiled at her impulsiveness. Today she realised that this
trip to the USA - like her search for the truth - was a way of
getting away from something. Nothing serious, she quickly
reassured herself. It was not about escaping. America was
where she felt most herself and that was why she'd come.
She was just a bit uncertain about what she needed a break
from.
By the time she reached Dennisport, just over a mile
from the address that was tucked in her wallet behind the
photo of Kristiane, she had decided to turn around. She
could call it a wild goose chase. Alvhild Sofienberg would
understand. Johanne couldn't do any more. She would continue
her research without Aksel Seier. His case was not
vital to her. She had plenty of other cases to choose from,
cases where the people in question lived only a trip on the
metro away from the office, or a short flight to Tromso.
The gearbox made a horrible scraping noise.
She carried on driving.
Maybe she could just have a look at his house. She
didn't need to make contact. As she had come this far, it
would be good just to get an impression of where Aksel
Seier had got to in life. A house and a garden and maybe a
car might tell a story that was worth knowing, having come
this far.
Aksel Seier lived at 1 Ocean Avenue.
The house was easy to find. It was small. Like all the

90
other houses around it, it was clad with cedar, grey with age,
weatherworn and typical of the area. The window sills were
blue. On the roof, a weathercock reluctantly faced the
wind. A stocky man was struggling with a ladder by the east
wall. It wasn't lunchtime yet, but Johanne felt hungry all
the same.

Aksel Seier had to get a new ladder. He needed to get up on
the roof. Some rungs were missing from the old ladder and it
creaked alarmingly. But he had to get up there. The weathercock
kept getting stuck. Aksel was sometimes woken up at
night by the wind forcing the stubborn bird round; it
screeched when the wind came from the south-east.
'Hi, Aksel. Pretty thing you've got there!'
A younger man in a checked flannel shirt was leaning
against the fence, laughing. Aksel nodded briefly at his
neighbour and held the pig up in front of him. He tilted his
head and shrugged his shoulders.
'Kind of original, I guess. I like it.'
The pig was made of oxidised copper, a slim pig that
stood guard over the four crossed arrows that marked out
each point of the compass. Aksel Seier had got the weathervane
in exchange for some colourful net markers. The
glass floats had water in them and couldn't be used, but
were still valuable as souvenirs.
'Help me with this ladder, will you?'
Matt Delaware was seriously overweight. Aksel hoped
that the younger man would not offer to switch the cock for
the pig for him. They finally managed to get the ladder in
place.
'I would have helped you, you know. But. . . '
Matt looked at the ladder. He slapped one of the rungs

91


lightly and pulled his baseball cap round. Aksel grunted. He
carefully placed his foot on the first rung. It held. Slowly he
climbed to the top. The weathercock was so rusty that it
broke when Aksel tried to unscrew it. The fixture was still
fine though. The pig was easily tamed by the wind and it
took a matter of minutes to adjust the arrows to the points of
the compass.
'Awesome,' grinned Matt, staring up at the pig. 'Just
awesome, you know!'
Aksel mumbled his thanks. Matt put the ladder back in
its place. Aksel heard him chuckling long after he was out
of sight, round the corner on the way to the O'Connors,
who hadn't opened their house for the summer yet.
Someone had parked in Ocean Avenue. Aksel glanced
idly over at the Ford. There was a woman sitting alone
inside the car. You weren't allowed to leave cars here. She
would have to use the car park on Atlantic Avenue, like all
the other visitors. She didn't come from round here. That
was obvious, without him really knowing why. The summer
season was hell. City folk everywhere. Throwing their
money around. They thought that everything was for sale.
'If the price is right,' the estate agent had said in the
spring. 'Name your price, Aksel.'
He didn't want to sell the house. Some Boston bigwig or
other would be happy to pay a million dollars for the small
house by the beach. A million! Aksel snorted at the
thought. The house was small and he barely had enough
money to cover more than basic maintenance. He did most
of it himself, but the materials cost money. As did plumbers
and electricians. This winter he'd had to put in a new water
pipe when the old one burst. The pressure had fallen to a
dribbling nothing from the kitchen tap and the water

authorities had threatened to take him to court if he didn't
do something immediately. When it was all done and the
bill had been paid, there were only fifty-six dollars left in
Aksel Seier's savings account.
A million!
The buyer would just pull the whole lot down. It was
the location that was attractive. Waterfront. Private beach.
With the right to erect a large sign saying No trespassing and Police take notice. Aksel Seier had sent the estate agent packing
and told him to spare himself any more visits. To be
sure, he could do with a few hundred dollars every now and
then, but only when he earned them himself. Aksel had no
idea what he would do with a million.
He tidied away his tools. The lady in the Taurus was still
sitting there, which irritated him. Normally at this time of
year he was quite tolerant; he would hardly survive the
summer if he weren't. But this lady was different. He felt
she was staring at him. Her car wasn't parked for the ocean
view. It was too far up the road. Too close to the big oak
tree that towered over the Piccolas' house; they would have
to do something about it this summer, chop it down, at least
saw off some branches. They hung heavy over the roof now
and scraped off the shingle. Soon it would start leaking.
The lady in the car was not interested in the ocean. It
was him she was interested in. An age-old fear ripped
through his body. Aksel Seier caught his breath and turned
around abruptly. Then he went in and locked the door,
even though it was no later than eleven in the morning.

Aksel Seier was just as Johanne had imagined. Well built
and stocky. From a distance it was difficult to tell whether
he was clean-shaven, but there was certainly no beard to

93
1
talk of. It was almost as if she had seen him before. From
that first night when she read Alvhild Sofienberg's papers,
she had tried to put together a picture of the old Aksel
Seier, thirty-five years after his release. His jacket was
threadbare and dark blue. He was wearing heavy boots,
even though the outside temperature was more than
twenty degrees centigrade. His hair was grey and a bit too
long, as if he didn't care about his appearance. Even from a
hundred metres, it was easy to see that he had big hands.
He had looked over in her direction a couple of times.
She tried to shrink in the car seat. Even though she was not
doing anything illegal, she felt herself blush when he
straightened his back and squinted over at her for the
second time. If he had really seen what she looked like, it
would be embarrassing to approach him later.
She wouldn't talk to him. She could see that he was content.
He had a good life. The house might be small and
weather-worn, but the site would be valuable. There was a
small pick-up truck in the garden, not very old. A younger
man had stopped and chatted with him. The man laughed
and waved when he left. Aksel Seier belonged here.
Johanne was hungry. It was unbearably hot in the car,
even though she had parked in the shade of a large oak
tree. She wound down the window slowly.
'You can't park here, sweetie!'
A large pink angora sweater made the old lady look like
candyfloss. She was smiling broadly in all the pink and
Johanne nodded in apology. Then she moved the car into
drive mode and hoped that the gearbox would last another
day. She noted that it was eleven o'clock exactly, on
Tuesday 23 May.

94
For some reason, he noticed that it was five o'clock.
Someone had hung an old station clock on the stable wall.
The hour hand was broken and only a short stump pointed
at what was probably the number five. Adam Stubo felt
uneasy and double-checked the time.
'Here Amund. Come to Gramps.'
The boy was standing between the front legs of a brown
horse. The animal bent its head and whinnied. Adam Stubo
picked up his grandchild and put Amund astride the saddleless
horse.
'You have to say goodbye to Sabra now. We have to go
home and eat supper. You and I.'
'And Sabra.'
'No, not Sabra. Sabra lives here in the stable. There's no
room for her in Grandpa's living room.'
'Bye-bye, Sabra!'
Amund leaned forward and buried his face in the horse's
mane.
'Bye-bye.'
The sense of unease would not leave him. It was nearly
painful, a cold finger up his spine that grabbed him by the
neck and made him stiffen. He pulled the boy close to him
and started to walk towards the car. He felt uncomfortable
as he strapped Amund into his seat. In the old days, before
the accident, he thought he was psychic. Even though he
had never really believed in things like that. But he still
quite liked it when others noticed that there was something,
a sensitivity that made him special. Every now and
then he would feel freezing waves washing over his body
that made him look at the clock. Note the time. He had
found it useful before. Now he felt ashamed.
'Get a grip,' he mumbled to himself, and put the car in gear.


19




It later transpired that no one actually noticed Sarah
Baardsen on the bus. It was in the middle of rush hour
and people were squeezed together like sardines. All the
seats were taken. There were lots of children on the bus,
most of them with adults. The only thing that was clear
after more than forty witnesses had been interviewed was
that Sarah was put on the no. 20 bus at five to five, as she
was every Tuesday. Her mother's statement was supported
by two colleagues who had waited for her while she waved
the girl off. Sarah was eight years old, and for over a year
had been taking the bus on her own to see her grandmother
in T0yen. It wasn't a long journey, barely a quarter
of an hour. Sarah was described as a sensible and independent
girl, and although the mother was distraught that
she hadn't gone with her, no one was likely to blame the
single mother for letting an eight-year-old take the bus
alone.
So it was clear that Sarah was put on the bus and it was
equally clear that she never arrived at her destination. Her
grandmother was waiting for her at the usual bus stop.
Sarah knew perfectly well where it was and usually jumped
down into her grandmother's arms as soon as the doors
opened. This time she didn't get off. Her grandmother had
the presence of mind to hold the bus. Slowly she went
through it twice herself, ignoring the irritated bus driver.
Sarah was nowhere to be seen.
A couple of people thought they had seen the girl get
off at Carl Berner. They were absolutely certain that she
had a blue hat on. They had been standing by the back
doors and were surprised to see such a small girl alone on
the full bus.
Sarah was not wearing a hat.
An elderly lady said she had specifically noticed a little

girl of around six with a grown man. The girl had blonde
hair and was carrying a rag doll. She was crying so much,
said the lady. The man seemed to be angry with her. A
gang of teenagers said that the bus had been full of shouting
and screaming kids. An IT guru with a degree of
celebrity that he seemed to think obviously made him a
more reliable witness claimed to have seen a girl with a
Coke bottle sitting on her own at the front of the bus. She
suddenly got up and off the bus without any adults, as if
she'd seen something unexpected at the bus stop by the
Munch museum.
Sarah had dark hair and was not carrying a Coke bottle.
She had never owned a rag doll, and in any case was eight
and big for her age.
But if the passengers on the no. 20 bus had been more
observant on that Tuesday towards the end of May, they
would have noticed a man approaching a girl at the back of
the bus. They would have seen the girl give her seat to an
old lady, just as her mother had taught her. They would
have seen her smiling. They might also have seen the man
squat down in front of her in the crush and that he smiled
back and said something before taking her by the hand.
Had it not been exactly five o'clock in the afternoon, when
everyone was hungry and drowsy due to low blood sugar
and therefore thinking about supper, they might have been
able to tell the police that the girl seemed confused, but
that she willingly followed the man when he got off at the
next bus stop.
The police gathered over forty witness statements from
the no. 20 bus. None of them seemed to say anything that
could explain what had happened to little Sarah Baardsen.

20



This time she came on foot. Even though lots of people
had started the season early and Harwichport was
already full of tourists and new and old summer visitors, he
recognised her immediately. She came ambling down
Atlantic Avenue, as if she was out on some plausible errand.
She stopped by the parking place, where the view to the
beach was not blocked by houses and walled gardens, and
turned to the south, towards the ocean. But she didn't go
up to the fence. She was wearing sunglasses, but he could
swear that she was actually looking at his house. At him.
Aksel Seier shut the garden gate. His fear was about to
spill over into anger. If she wanted something from him,
then she at least could have the guts to contact him
directly. He pulled at his sweater; it was warm now, past
midday. Down on the beach, he could hear the noises of a
group of teenagers swimming in Nantucket Sound. The
water was still freezing. Two days ago, the mercury had
stood at sixty degrees Fahrenheit when he measured the
temperature in the water before going fishing. The
woman in the windcheater walked slowly past on the
other side of the road.
'What do you want, dammit7'
Aksel was holding the hammer so hard that he didn't
dare do anything other than drop it to the ground. The slate
slabs that he was standing on rang out. The blood pounded
in his ears. Fear was so alien to him now, a thing of the past.
It was years since he had finally overcome the nameless
fear that he first experienced when he was held in custody
in January 1957.
It was a few weeks after his arrest. Aksel's mother had
taken her own life. He was not allowed to go to the funeral.
The old policeman rattled his keys and stared him in the
eye. Everyone knew that Seier was guilty, he growled. The
keys hit against the wall, again and again. Aksel didn't stand
a chance of being found innocent. He might as well admit
it, if only to ease the pain of poor little Hedvig's parents.
Hadn't they suffered enough? The policeman's eyes were
full of disdain. He rubbed them roughly with the sleeve of
his jacket and Aksel realised that everything was lost. Fear
kept him awake for four whole days. In the end he started
to hallucinate and was given medicine so he would sleep.
Aksel became a creature of the night who only rested for
a few hours in the afternoon and then counted the stars
through the bars while others slept. Fear accompanied him
to the hostel, to the eight bare square metres where he
lived after his sudden release. It followed him over the
ocean and plagued him frequently. Right up until March
1993. Aksel Seier woke up late one day, amazed that he had
slept through the night without interruption. For the first
time in thirty-six years, the policeman with the keyring and
the running eyes had left him in peace.

' What the hell do you want?
The woman stopped. She seemed to hesitate. Even
though his heart was pounding, making it hard to breathe
normally, he noticed that she was beautiful. In a boring way,
as if she could not be bothered to do anything about it. She
was probably around thirty-something and dressed in pretty
neutral clothes. Jeans and a red V-neck sweater. Trainers.
Aksel noticed that he was studying her, storing a picture of
her for later use. Her eyes were brown, he noticed as she
came towards him with some trepidation, taking off her
sunglasses and putting on her normal ones. Her hair was
dark, shoulder length, with waves that might become curls
in damp weather. Her hands were slim, with long fingers
that she pulled aimlessly through her hair. Aksel bit his
tongue.
'Aksel Seier?'
Fear was about to strangle him. The woman pronounced
his name in a way that he hadn't heard since 1966. He
wasn't called Aksel Seier any longer. His name was Axel
Sayer, drawn out and round. Not hard and precise: Aksel
Seier.
'Who's asking?' he managed to say.
She held out her hand. He didn't take it.
'My name is Johanne Vik. I work at the University of
Oslo and I've come because I would like to talk to you
about being wrongly accused of the rape and murder of a
child a long time ago. If you want to, that is. If you can bear
to talk about it now, so many years later.'
Her hand was still held out towards him. There was a
kind of defiance in the gesture, an insistence that made
him open his mouth and press air down into his lungs
before grasping it.
'AxelSayer' he said in a hoarse voice. 'That's what I'm
called now.'
The candyfloss lady padded towards them from the
beach. She walked round the fence and gasped loudly and
demonstratively before exclaiming:
'Female visitor, Aksel! I'll say!'
'Come in,' said Aksel, turning his back on the pink
sweater.
Johanne didn't know what she had expected. Even though
she had had a clear picture of what Aksel Seier looked like,
she had never thought about what his surroundings would
be like, what his life in the States was like. She stood in the
doorway. The living room opened on to the kitchen and
was full of things. The only furniture was a small coffee
table with a worn sofa and a roughly made kitchen table
with a single wooden chair. But it was still hard to see
where she should put her feet. There was a big dog in one
corner. She got a fright. It was only when she looked again
that she saw that the fur was carved hair by hair from wood
and that the yellow eyes were glass. In the opposite corner
there was a galleon figurehead hanging from the low ceiling.
It was a big-bosomed woman with a distant look in her
eyes and deep-red, nearly purple lips. Her golden-yellow
hair flowed down over her arched body. The figure was far
too big for the room. It looked like it might fall from the
wall at any moment. In which case the woman would crush
an army of what looked like tin soldiers that were spread
out in a tremendous battle covering about two square
metres of the floor. Johanne stepped gingerly towards the
army and squatted down. The soldiers were made of glass.
Tiny blue jackets, individualised soldiers with bayonets
and cannons, hats and marks of rank, fighting against the
Confederate soldiers in grey.
'They're so ... so incredibly beautiful!'
She picked up a general to look at him more closely; he
sat securely on his horse, some distance from the raging
battle. Even his eyes were clear, light blue with an indication
of black pupils in the middle. His horse was foaming at
the mouth and she could almost feel heat coming off the
sweating animal.
'Where . . . did you make this? I've never seen anything
like it in my life!'
Aksel Seier didn't answer. Johanne heard the rattle of
pans. He was hidden by the worktops.
'Coffee?' he asked in a strained voice.
'No, thank you. Yes, actually . . . if you're making some.
But don't make it just for me.'
'A beer.'
It didn't sound like a question.
'Yes, please,' she said with some hesitation. 'I'd love a
beer.'
Aksel Seier straightened up and kicked the cupboard
door shut with his foot. He looked relieved. The fridge
groaned reluctantly when he took out two cans. The annoying
hum dissolved into a moan. Rays of sunlight forced
their way through the dirty windows. Dust danced in the
patches of light outlined on the floor. A cat appeared from
nowhere over by the kitchen. It purred and rubbed against
Johanne's legs. Then it disappeared again out through a cat
flap in the door. Beside the galleon figure, behind the soldiers,
was a fish barrel with rusty hoops. A plastic doll in a
Sami costume was standing on the top. The colours, which
had once been strong and clear, red and blue and yellow
and green, had faded to tame pastels. The doll looked
blankly at the opposite wall, which was covered by an
impressive piece of embroidery, a wall hanging really. The
motif started figuratively in one corner, a medieval knight
ready for a jousting tournament, in his coat of armour with
raised lance. This then became non-figurative and flowed
into an orgy of colours up towards the right.
'I must ... Is it you who has made all these fantastic
things?'
Aksel Seier stared at her. He slowly raised the beer can
to his mouth. He drank, then dried his mouth on his sleeve.
'What did you say?'
'Is it you who
'When you came. You said something about me
being
'I have reason to believe you were wrongly convicted.'
She looked at him and tried to say something more. He
took a step back, as if the sunlight from the kitchen window
bothered him. He gave a slight nod and the shadow from
his mop of hair, heavy and grey, hid his eyes. She looked at
him and regretted having said anything.
She had nothing more to offer him. No redress. No
restored honour. No compensation for lost years, both in
and out of prison. Johanne had come over the ocean, more
or less on impulse, with nothing in her luggage other than
an old woman's absolute conviction and a lot of unanswered
questions. If it was true that Aksel Seier had been wrongly
convicted of the awful crime, the most horrible attack how
did he feel right now? How must it feel finally, after all
these years, to hear someone say: I think you are innocent!
Johanne had no right to do this. She should not have come.
'I mean . . . Some people have studied your case more
carefully . . . One person . . . She is . . . Can we sit down?'
He stood, frozen. One arm hung loosely by his side,
swinging almost imperceptibly to the beat of his heart,
backwards and forwards, forwards and back. He held the
beer can in his left hand. He was still hiding behind his
greasy hair, his eyes were small slits of something she could
not recognise.
'I think it would be better if we sat down, Mr Seier.'
A snuffle came from his throat. An involuntary noise, as
if he really wanted to swallow but had got something in his
throat. He sniffled again, almost a sob, his whole body was
shaking and he put down the beer can.
'Mr Seier,' he repeated, in a hoarse voice. 'No one has
called me that for many years. Who are you?'
'Do you know what?'
She carefully retreated from the battle tableau on the
floor.
'I'd like to ask you out, to a restaurant. We could get
something to eat and then talk about why I'm here. I think
I've got a lot to tell you.'
It's a lie, she thought. I have practically nothing to tell
you. I have come with a thousand questions that I need to
have answered. It's important for me and for an old woman
who is keeping herself alive so she can hear the answers.
I'm fooling you. I'm pulling the wool over your eyes. I'm
using you.
'Where can you get a decent meal round here?' she
asked instead, in a light tone.
'Come,' he said and walked towards the door.
When she moved to follow him, she stepped on the general.
The breaking noise was deadened by the rough floor.
Horrified, she lifted her foot. The glass figure was smashed
to smithereens, tiny shards of blue and gold stuck to the
sole of her shoe.
Aksel Seier stared down. Then he lifted his face towards
her.
'Do you really believe that? Do you really believe in my . . . innocence?'
He turned away at once, not waiting for a reply.


21



The new girl was called Sarah. Even though she was a
year younger, she was as big as Emilie. So it was a bit
difficult to comfort her. Just like with Daddy. Emilie
wanted to comfort him so much when Mummy died. After
the funeral, when the house wasn't full of people who
wanted to help them any more, he didn't want her to see
him crying. But she knew how he was feeling. She heard
him, at night, when he thought she was asleep, with a
pillow over his head to make sure that she wouldn't hear.
She wanted to comfort him, but it was impossible because
he was grown up. He was bigger than her. There was nothing
she could say or do. And when she did try, he put on a
big brave smile, got out of bed and made waffles and talked
about the holiday they were going to have in the summer.
It was almost the same with Sarah. She cried and cried,
but was just a bit too big to be comforted. Emilie was actually
very glad that Sarah had come. It was much better
when they were two. And particularly good that they were
both girls and even better that Sarah was nearly the same
age as her. That was all that Emilie knew about Sarah.
What she was called and how old she was. Every time they
tried to talk, Sarah started to cry. She sniffed something
about a bus and a grandmother. Maybe her grandmother
was a bus driver and Sarah thought she would come and
rescue them. In the same way that she sometimes still
thought that Mummy was sitting in her red dress with plum
diamonds in her ears, watching over her.
Sarah hadn't realised it was best to be nice to the man.
After all, he was the one who brought them food and
drink and a horse for Barbie a while back. If Emilie smiled
and said thank you and was nice and polite, the man smiled
back. He seemed to be happy, kind of, and more pleased
when he looked at her. Sarah had bitten him. As they came
into the room, she sunk her teeth into his arm. He howled
and hit Sarah hard on the head. She started to bleed just
above her eye. There was still a proper cut there and the
blood hadn't dried and hardened yet.
'You have to be nice to the man,' said Emilie, and sat
down on the bed beside Sarah. 'He brings food and presents.
It's best to be polite. I think he's actually quite kind.'
'He hi... hi... hit me,' sobbed Sarah and felt her eye.
'He said he was Mum . . . mu . . . '
It was impossible to hear the rest. Emilie felt a bit dizzy.
She got that old feeling again, the horrible, sickening feeling
that there was no oxygen left in the cellar. The best
thing was just to lie down and close her eyes.
'He said he was Mummy's new boyfriend,' Sarah whispered
tearfully.
Emilie didn't know if she'd been asleep. She licked her
lips. Her tongue tasted of sleep and her eyes felt heavy.
'Mummy's got a new boyfriend who I was going to meet
to ... tomo . . . '
Emilie sat up slowly. It was easier to breathe now.
'Try to breathe slowly,' she said - that was what Mummy
used to say to her when she was crying so much that she
couldn't speak. 'Breathe deeply. In and out. There's plenty
of oxygen here. Do you see that opening in the ceiling?'
She pointed and Sarah nodded.
'That's where he sends oxygen down to us. The man,
that is. He sends down lots of oxygen to the cellar, so we
can breathe, even if there are no windows. Don't be scared.
You can borrow my Barbie. Is your gran a bus driver?'
Sarah was exhausted. Her face was white and covered in
red blotches, her eyes were so swollen that they were
nearly closed.
'My granny's an electrician,' she said, talking without
crying for the first time.
'My mother is dead,' said Emilie.
'My mother has a new boyfriend,' said Sarah and wiped
her nose.
'Is he nice?'
'I don't know, I was going to meet
'Don't cry any more now.'
Emilie was annoyed. The man could hear them. Even if
he wasn't there, he might have microphones somewhere.
Emilie had thought about that a lot. She had seen things
like that in films. She almost didn't dare to look properly.
To begin with, when she first came here, she had walked
around the room looking for something, without knowing
exactly what. She found nothing. But you could get microphones
that were so small you could fit them in a molar tooth. They were so small that you couldn't see them. You
needed a microscope. Maybe the man was sitting somewhere
listening to them and watching them as well. Because you could also get tiny cameras. As small as a nail
head, and there were lots of nails in the wall. Emilie had
seen a film once, called Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. It was
about a slightly mad but rather sweet dad who did all sorts
of experiments in the attic. The children touched something
they weren't supposed to touch and shrank until they
were very, very small. Like insects. No one could see them.
The man could see her. She was sure he had a TV screen
and a headset and knew exactly what they were doing.
'Smile,' she whispered.
Sarah started to cry properly again. Emilie put her hand
over her mouth.
'You have to smile,' she ordered, and pulled up her lips
into a grin. 'He's watching us.'
Sarah twisted out of her grip.
'He said that he was Mumm . . . Mummy's boy . . .
boyfr
Emilie squeezed shut her eyes again and lay down on
the bed. There was barely enough room for the two of
them. She pushed Sarah away and turned her face to the
wall. When she squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she
could, it was almost as if there was light in her head. She
could see things. She could see Daddy looking for her. He
had a flannel shirt on. He was looking for her among the
wild flowers at the back of the house, he had a magnifying
glass and thought that someone had shrunk her.
Emilie wished that Sarah had never come.



22



There was now a sea of flowers to mark the spot where
Emilie Selbu's satchel had been found, on the quiet
path between two busy roads. Some of the flowers were
withering, others were already dead. And in among them
all, fresh roses in small plastic containers. Children's drawings
fluttered in the evening breeze.
A group of teenagers cycled by. They were shouting and
laughing, but lowered their voices as they cycled round the
flowers and letters. A girl of about fourteen put her foot on
the ground and stood still for a few seconds before swearing
loudly and clearly, then shook her head and pedalled frantically
after the others.
The man pulled his hat further down over his eyes. He
slipped his other hand into his trousers. Did he dare get
even closer? The thought of standing on the spot, the very
place where Emilie was taken, exactly where she was
abducted, made his balls burn. He lost his balance and had
to press his hip against a tree to stop himself from falling.
He groaned and bit his lip.
'What the hell are you doing?'
Two people appeared behind him. They popped up out
of nowhere, from behind a dense bush. Surprised, he
turned towards them, his penis still in his hand; it went
limp between his fingers and he tried to smile.
'Noth . . . nothing,' he stammered, paralysed.

'He . . . he's wanking, for Christ's sakeV
It took them two minutes to render him harmless, but
they didn't stop there. When the man dressed in paramilitary
gear stumbled into the police station, pushed by a
newly established group of neighbourhood vigilantes, his
right eye was already swollen and blue. His nose was bleeding
and it looked as if his arm was broken.
He said nothing, not even when the police asked him if
he needed a doctor.


23



Are you sure you don't want to speak English?'
He shook his head. There were a couple of times
when he didn't seem to understand what she said. She
repeated herself, in different, simpler words. It was hard to
say whether it helped. His expression didn't change. He
didn't say much.
Aksel Seier had ordered a filet mignon and a beer.
Johanne was happy with a Caesar salad and a glass of iced
water. They were the only guests at The 400 Club, a rural
mix between a restaurant and a diner, only seven minutes'
walk from Ocean Avenue. Aksel Seier had walked towards
his pick-up, then shrugged and gone on foot when
Johanne insisted. It was too late for lunch and too early for
dinner. The kitchen was working on half steam. Before
the food arrived on the table, Johanne had told him all
about Alvhild Sofienberg, the old lady who was once so
interested in Aksel Seier's case, but then forced to drop it.
And now, many years later, Alvhild wanted to find out
why he had been sentenced and then released so suddenly
nearly nine years later. Johanne described the futile
search for the case documents. And finally, in a kind of
casual postscript, she explained her own interest in the
case.
The food arrived. Aksel Seier picked up his knife and
fork. He ate slowly, taking time to chew. Again, he let his
hair fall over his eyes. It must be an old trick; the coarse
grey hair became a wall between him and her.

Uninterested, she thought. You seem completely uninterested.
Why did you bother to come here with me? Why
didn't you just throw me out? I would have accepted that.
Or you might listen to what I've got to say and then say
thank you and goodbye. You could get up now. You could
finish your food, accept a free meal from a past you had
hidden and forgotten and then just go. It's your right. You
have used so many years trying to forget. And I'm ruining it
all for you. I'm crushing you. Go.
'What do you want me to say?'
Half the meat was still on the plate. Aksel put his knife
between the teeth of the fork and drank the rest of his beer.
Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over
his chest.
I was expecting some enthusiasm, she thought. This is
absurd. Here I am thinking I'm an angel, a messenger
bringing good tidings. I want... what do I want? Ever since
I read your story - from the moment I realised that Alvhild
was right - I've seen myself in the role of the fairy godmother.
Who would right all wrongs. I would come here
and tell you what you already know: that you're innocent.
You are innocent. I want to confirm that for you. I've come
all the way from Norway and you should be . . . grateful.
Damn it, I want some gratitude.
'I want absolutely nothing,' she said quietly. 'If you
want, I can go.'
Aksel smiled. His teeth were even and grey and didn't
suit his face. It was as if someone had cut out an old
mouth and sewn it on somewhere it didn't belong. But he
smiled and put his hands down on the table in front of
him.
'I've dreamt about what it would be like to have . . . '
He searched for the right word. Johanne was unsure
whether to help him or not. There was a long pause.
'Your name cleared,' she said.
'Exactly. To have my name cleared.'
He looked down at his empty glass. Johanne signalled to
the waitress to bring another. She had a thousand questions,
but couldn't think of a single one.
'Why . . . ' she started, without knowing where she was
going. 'Are you aware of the fact that the media was highly
critical of your sentence? Did you know that several journalists
mocked the prosecution and the witnesses they
brought against you?'
'No.'
The smile had vanished and the fringe was about to fall
again. But he didn't seem aggressive. Nor curious. His voice
was completely flat. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to
the language any more. Maybe he really had to summon up
his strength to even take in what she was telling him.
'I didn't get the papers.'
'But what about afterwards? You must have heard about
it afterwards, from other people, from your fellow inmates,
from
'I had no mates in prison. It wasn't a very . . . friendly
place.'
'Didn't any journalists try to talk to you? I've got the
clippings with me, so you can have a look. Surely some of
them must have tried to contact you after you were sentenced?
I've tried to trace the two journalists who were
most critical, but unfortunately they're both dead now. Can
you remember if they tried to get an interview with you?'
The glass of beer was already half empty. He ran his
finger round the rim.
'Maybe. It's so long ago now. I thought everyone ... I
thought every
You thought that everyone was out to get you, thought
Johanne. You didn't want to talk to anyone. You walled yourself
in, both physically and mentally, and didn't trust anyone.
You mustn't trust me, either. Don't think that I can do anything.
Your case is too old. It won't be taken up again. I'm
just curious. I've got questions. I want to make notes. I've
got a notebook and a tape recorder in my bag. If I get them
out, there's a risk you'll leave. That you'll say no. That you'll
finally realise that I'm only looking after my own interests.
'Like I said . . . '
She nodded at the beer glass. Did he want another? He
shook his head.
'I do research. And the project I'm working on at the
moment is trying to compare . . . '
'You've already told me.'
'Right. I wondered if. . . is it OK if I take notes?'
A large lady slapped the bill down on the table in front of
Aksel. Johanne snatched it up a bit too fast. The waitress
tossed her head and wiggled back out to the kitchen without
turning round. Aksel's face darkened.
'I'll pay,' he said. 'Give me the bill.'
'No, no . . . let me. I'll get it on expenses ... I mean, it
was me who asked you out.'
'Give me that!'
She let go of the bill. It fell to the floor. He picked it up.
Then he took out a worn wallet and started to count the
notes.
'I might talk to you later,' he said, without looking up
from the money. 'I need to think about all this. How long
are you here for?'

'A few days, at least.'
'A few days. Thirty-one, thirty-two
It was a big pile of worn notes.
'Where are you staying?'
'The Augustus Snow.'
'I'll be in touch.'
He pushed back his chair and got up with heavy movements.
Gone was the man who had climbed up a rickety
ladder to change a weathercock for a pig earlier in the day.
'Can I ask you something?' said Johanne quickly. 'Just
one question before you go?'
He didn't answer, but made no effort to go.
'Did they say anything when you were released? I mean,
did they give you any explanation as to what had happened?
Did they tell you that you'd been pardoned or... '
'Nothing. They said nothing. I was given a suitcase to
put my things in. An envelope with one hundred kroner.
The address of a hostel. But they said nothing. Except, there
was a man, a ... He wasn't wearing a uniform or anything
like that. He just said I should keep my mouth shut and be
happy. "Keep your mouth shut and be happy." I remember
that sentence well. But explanation? Nope.'
Again he bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. It
was horrible and made her look down. Aksel Seier walked
towards the entrance and then disappeared, without waiting
for her, without making any further arrangements. She
twisted her water glass in her hand. She tried to catch a
thought. But couldn't.
There was something in Aksel Seier's house that didn't
belong there. She had seen something. She had reacted to
something, afterwards, when it was too late, something that
was part of the bizarre interior, but that stood out all the

same. She closed her eyes and tried to recreate Aksel
Seier's living room. The galleon figure. The battlefield.
The sad Sami in a faded jacket. The knight on the wall.
The wall clock with horseshoe weights. The bookcase with
four books in it, but she couldn't remember any of the
titles. An old coffee jar with small change in it by the door.
The TV with an indoor aerial. A standard lamp in the shape
of a shark, with its teeth in the floor and a light in its tail. A
lifelike Labrador in black painted wood. Absurd, intriguing
objects that belonged together in some indescribable way.
Plus something else. Something she had reacted to,
without paying attention before it was too late.

Aksel Seier walked fast. His thoughts turned back to that
spring day in 1966, when he saw Oslo for the last time. The
fjord was covered in a blanket of fog. He stood by the railings
on MS Sandefjord, sailing to the USA with a cargo of
artificial fertiliser. The captain had nodded briefly when
Aksel explained his situation, honestly and without any
embellishment. That he had served a long prison sentence
and it looked like nothing would work out for him here in
Norway. The captain didn't need to worry, Aksel Seier was
an American citizen. The passport that was thumped down
on the table was genuine enough. All he wanted was to
make himself useful during the voyage over the Atlantic. If
he could, that was.
He could help out in the galley. Before they reached the
Dyna lighthouse, he had peeled four kilos of potatoes.
Then he went out on deck for a while. He knew that he
was leaving for good. He cried and didn't know why.
Since then, he had never shed a tear, until now.
He ran home. The bolt in the gate was difficult and gave
him problems. The postman stuck his head out of the car
window, pointed at the pig and laughed. Aksel Seier
jumped over the low fence and rushed indoors. Then he
locked the door carefully behind him and climbed into bed.
The cat meowed loudly outside the window but he paid no
attention.

24

' A nd you're wasting time on this?'
/l Adam Stubo rubbed his face. The palm of his hand
rasped against the dry stubble. It was past two in the morning
on Wednesday 24 May. A cluster of around twenty-five
journalists and nearly as many photographers huddled outside
Asker and Basrum police station in Sandvika. They
were being kept out of the red-brick building by a couple
of police cadets, who had resorted to their truncheons in
the last fifteen minutes. They paced back and forth in front
of the entrance, angrily smacking their truncheons into
their hands, like caricature policemen from a Chaplin film.
The photographers pulled back a step or two. Some of the
journalists started to look at their watches. One guy from Dagbladet, who Adam Stubo recognised, yawned loudly and
obviously. He barked at one of the photographers before
shambling over to a Saab that was parked illegally. He got
in, but the car didn't move.
Adam Stubo let the curtain fall and turned back to the
room.
'Jesus, Hermansen, the poor guy has never hurt a fly!'
'And who said that our abductor necessarily had a criminal
record?'
Hermansen blew his nose on his fingers and swore.
'That's not what I meant.'
'Well, what the hell do you mean then? Just four hours
after yet another child was abducted, there's a guy at the
first crime scene, dressed in camouflage like he's planning
a career in the CIA, jerking himself off and moaning the
girl's name to himself! And now he's sitting downstairs and
can't tell us what he was doing on Thursday the 4th of May,
when Emilie Selbu disappeared, or the 10th of May when
Kim was abducted. He can't even bloody remember what
he was doing at 5 o'clock today.'
'That's quite simply because the man's got nothing to
tell,' said Adam Stubo drily. 'The man's an idiot. Literally.
At least, he's not all there. He's terrified, Hermansen.'
Hermansen lifted a dirty coffee cup to his mouth. The
sour smell of stress and sweat pervaded the room. Adam
wasn't sure whom it was coming from.
'He's a driver by trade,' growled Hermansen. 'Can't be a
complete idiot. Drives for a courier company. And he does
have a record. No less than
He grabbed a file and pulled out a document.
'Five fines and two sentences for sexual offences.'
Adam Stubo wasn't listening. Once again, he looked
stealthily out at the journalists. Their numbers had dwindled.
He rubbed his nose and tried to work out what time
it would be on the east coast of the USA.
'Indecent exposure,' he sighed heavily, without looking
at Hermansen. 'The man was done for flashing. Nothing
else. He's not the man we're looking for. Unfortunately.'

'Indecent exposure.'
Adam tried to stay neutral. It was impossible. Something
about the words themselves echoed contempt for the action
they described and could only be spat out, scornfully. The
camouflage man had shrunk to a pile of cloth. The sweat
was dripping. The man's shoulders were so narrow that the
arms of his jacket covered his hands. He had a sling round

his neck but wasn't using it. The crotch of his trousers
sagged down as far as his knees.
'Fifty-six years old,' said Adam Stubo slowly. 'Is that correct?'
The
man didn't answer. Adam pulled a chair over to him
and sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees and tried
not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of urine and old sweat.
This time he was certain of where the smell was coming
from.
'Listen,' he said quietly. 'Can I call you Laffen? Laffen,
that's what they call you, isn't it?'
A slight nod indicated that the man was at least able to
hear.
'Laffen,' smiled Stubo. 'My name is Adam. It's been a
tiring evening for you, hasn't it?'
Again, a slight nod.

'We'll soon get everything sorted. I just need you to
answer a few questions. OK?'
Another nod, almost imperceptible this time.
'Do you remember where you were caught? Where
those two men . . . where they found you?'
The man didn't react. His eyes, which were clearer at
such close range, were like two black marbles in his narrow
face. Adam carefully put his hand on the man's knee and
still got no reaction.
'You drive a car, don't you?'
'Ford Escort 1991 model. Metallic blue. One point six
litre engine, but it's been souped up. The stereo cost
eleventhousandfourhundredandninetykroner. Bucket seats
and a spoiler. Did it all myself.'
His voice grated. Adam felt like he had put money into
an old jukebox, especially when the man continued:

'Did it myself. Did it myself. Bucket seats and spoiler.'
'Great.'
'I didn't do anything.'
'Why were you there then?'
'For no reason. Just. . . just standing there. Looking. It's
not against the law to look.'
The man pulled up his left sleeve. A blinding-white
plaster cast came into view.
'They broke my arm. I didn't do nothing.'
It was half past three in the morning. Adam Stubo had
been awake for twenty-one hours. God knows how long it
was since the detainee had last slept. Adam slapped him
lightly on the knee and got up.
'Try to get some sleep on the bunk over there,' he said
in a friendly tone. 'As soon as it's daylight we'll get everything
sorted. And then you can go home.'
As he closed the door carefully behind him, he realised
that the camouflage man could pose a problem. He couldn't
plan a piss-up in a brewery, let alone carry out three
sophisticated abductions and one elaborate return of a
child's body. Sure, the man had a driving licence and therefore
must be able to read and write. But 'driver by trade' as
Hermansen had called him was a huge exaggeration all the
same. Laffen Sornes was on disability benefit and delivered
hot meals to the elderly in Stabekk twice a week. Unpaid.
The problem was not the flasher himself. The problem
was that the police had not arrested anyone else yet. Three
children had disappeared. One boy was already dead. All
the police had after three weeks of investigation was a
middle-aged flasher in a Ford Escort.
The flasher could turn out to be a major headache.
'Let him go,' said Adam Stubo.
Hermansen shrugged his shoulders.
'OK, but then we've got nothing. Zip all. You tell them
that, those vultures out there.'
He nodded at the window.
'Let the flasher go home as soon as it's daylight,' Stubo
yawned. 'And for God's sake, get the man another lawyer,
one who makes sure that his client isn't kept awake all
night. That's my advice. He's not our man. And you
He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and pointed a
finger.
'I can't decide what you do out here in Asker and
Baerum. But if I were you ... I'd fine the bastards who
broke his arm. If not, you'll be living in the Wild West
before you know it. Mark my words. Bloody Texas.'

123


25



Out in the country, in a valley to the north-east of Oslo,
in a house high on the hillside, sat a man with a remote
control in his hand. He was checking the news on teletext.
He liked teletext. He could get the news whenever he liked
in a format he liked: short and to the point. It was early
morning. The white light of another unused day flooded in
through the kitchen window and made him feel reborn,
every day. He laughed out loud, even though he was alone. Man (56) arrested in Emilie case.
He played with the buttons on the remote control. The
letters got bigger, smaller, bolder, narrower. Man arrested.
Did they think he was an amateur? And that he'd get angry
now? That he'd lose his head just because they had
arrested the wrong person? Because they made his actions
another man's property? Did the police think that it would
make him hurry, make mistakes, not be as careful?
He laughed out loud again, nearly ecstatic. The bare
walls echoed. He knew exactly what the police thought.
They thought he was a psychopath. They assumed he
would be conceited about his crimes. The police meant to
wound his pride. They wanted to lure him into making
mistakes. To boast about what he was doing. The man with
the remote control knew that, he had done his homework,
studied; he knew what the police would do when they discovered
that he was out there, someone who stole children
and killed them without them knowing why. They wanted
to provoke him.
He could picture them. All the information about the
children on a big board. Photographs, data. Computers.
Age, sex, history. Parents' background. Dates; they were
looking for links. A pattern. He was certain they would
make a point of the fact that Emilie was taken on a
Thursday, Kim on a Wednesday and Sarah on a Tuesday.
They thought they had it sussed and now expected something
to happen on a Monday. When the time came and the
next child disappeared on a Sunday, they would panic. No
pattern, they would say to each other. No system! Their
despair would paralyse them and would become utterly
unbearable when yet another child disappeared.
The man went over to the window. He would have to go
to work soon. But first he should take some food down to
the children. And water. Cornflakes and water, as he'd run
out of milk.
Emilie had pulled herself together. She was sweet.
Happy and friendly. Just like he'd expected. Even though
he had initially been uncertain as to whether he should take
her or not, he was glad he had done it now. Of course, there
was something special about Emilie. When he heard that
her mother had died, he had decided to leave her be. But
thankfully he'd changed his mind. She was a grateful little
girl. Said thank you for her food and was pleased to get the
horse, even though she said practically nothing when he
gave her the Barbie doll. He was still unsure what he was
going to do with Emilie in the long run, when it was all
over. But that didn't really matter. He had plenty of time.
Sarah was a little witch.
But he could have told you that beforehand. The bite
mark on his arm was red and swollen; he carefully stroked the skin and was annoyed that he hadn't been more cautious.
As he looked out of the window at the brow of the hill,
squinting against the morning sun, he wondered why he
hadn't started earlier. He had put up with too much, for too
long. Given in too often. Tolerated too much. Got too little.
Given in too much. It started when he was four years old.
Probably even earlier, but that was the first time that he
could remember.
Someone had sent him a present. He didn't know who.
His mother collected it from the post office.
The man with the remote control liked to reminisce. It
was important for him to think back. He turned off the TV
and poured some coffee into his cup. He should really be
getting the cornflakes and water ready. But memories were
his fuel and had to be tended to when they demanded it.
He closed his eyes.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, on his knees on a red
wooden chair. He was drawing. In front of him was a glass
of milk; he could still remember the sweet taste that clung
to his palate, the heat from the burner in the corner; it was
the start of winter. His mother came into the room. His
grandmother had just gone to work. The package was
wrapped in brown paper, creased from the journey. The
string was tied crosswise with lots of knots and his mother
had to use the scissors, even though they normally saved
the string and brown paper.
The present was winter clothes. A blue jacket with a zip
and a ring in the zip. There was a picture of a lorry with big
wheels on the front. The trousers had elastic cords to go
under the feet and crossed braces over the back. His
mother helped him put them on. He was allowed to stand
on the kitchen table. He licked his lips to get the taste of
sweet milk and the lamp bumped his head as it swung
backwards and forwards. His mother smiled. The blue
clothes were light. They weighed nothing. He lifted his
arms when she had done up the zip. He bent his knees and
thought he could fly. The jacket was warm and snug and
smooth, and he wanted to go out in the snow with the picture
of a lorry across his chest. He smiled at his mother.
The man dropped the remote control. It was nearly
eight o'clock, so he didn't have much time. Of course the
children in the cellar wouldn't starve if he skipped a meal,
but it was best to get it out of the way. He opened the
kitchen cupboard and looked at himself in the shaving
mirror that hung on the inside of the door.
His grandmother had come back. She had forgotten
something and she stiffened when she saw him.
Someone else got the clothes. Another child. Someone
who deserved them more, his grandmother said. That he
remembered very well. His mother didn't protest. Someone
had sent him a present. It was his, but he didn't get it. He
was four years old.
His face looked grimy in the mirror. But that wasn't how
he felt. He felt strong and decisive. The cornflakes box was
empty. The children would have to go hungry until he got
home. They would survive.


26

Johanne Vik had been working, half concentrated, all
evening. The night porter at the Augustus Snow Inn was
a boy who must have lied about his age to get the job. His
moustache was obviously darkened with mascara and in the
course of the evening it had got lighter. And there were
now black specks all around his nose, where he couldn't
help squeezing his spots. He gave her the code of the
hotel's own Internet server, so Johanne could log on from
her room. If she had any problems, all she needed to do was
call room service. The boy smiled broadly and smoothed
his moustache with his forefinger and thumb. It had now
nearly disappeared.
She should be tired. She yawned at the thought. She was tired, but not like she usually was. Jet lag normally bothered her a lot more than this. It was already two o'clock in
the morning and she worked out what it would be if she
were at home. Eight. Kristiane would have been up for ages
already. She would be pottering about at Isak's, with the
new dog, and Isak, no doubt, would be asleep. The dog had
peed everywhere and Isak would let it dry without bothering
to clean it up.
Irritated, she massaged her neck and let her eyes roam
around the room. On the floor, just inside the door, was a
note. It must have been lying there since she got back. The
stairs up to the second floor were old and creaked loudly.
She hadn't heard anyone. There was no one else staying up
here and the room across the hall was empty and dark. She

had gone in and out of her room three times to get coffee,
but hadn't noticed the note before.
It was received at 6 p.m.
Please call Ada Stubborn. Important. Any time. Don't mind
the time difference.
Stubborn. Stubo. Adam Stubo. The note included some
phone numbers. At home, at work and his mobile, she
assumed. She wouldn't ring any of them. Her thumb ran
gently over his name. Then she scrunched up the note.
Instead of throwing it away, she stuffed it quickly into her
trouser pocket and logged on to Dagbladet's home page.
A little girl had disappeared. Another one. Sarah
Baardsen, eight years old, abducted from a full bus in rush
hour, on her way to her grandmother's. The police had no
leads at the moment. The public was furious. In the areas
around the capital, from Drammen to Aurskog, from
Eidsvoll to Dr0bak, all after-school activities for children
had been cancelled until further notice. Chaperone services
had been organised for children on their way to and from
school. Some parents were demanding compensation for
staying at home; after-school clubs could not guarantee that
the children would be given adequate supervision one hundred
per cent of the time. And there weren't enough staff to
reinforce supervision. Oslo Taxi had set up a special children's
taxi service, with women drivers who prioritised
mothers travelling alone with children. The prime minister
had called for calm and reason and the children's ombudsman
had cried openly on television. A psychic woman had
had a vision of Emilie in a pigsty and was supported by a
Swedish colleague. There is more to life than meets the
eye, the Norwegian Farmers' and Smallholders' Union
responded, and promised that every pigsty in the country
would be searched by the weekend. A Progress Party politician
from Sorlandet had in all seriousness submitted a
proposal to the Storting for the reintroduction of the death
penalty. Johanne got goosebumps on her arms and pulled
down her sleeves.
Of course she wouldn't help Adam Stubo. The stolen
children became her own, in the same way that she always
saw Kristiane, her own daughter, in pictures of starving children
in Africa and seven-year-old prostitutes in Thailand.
Turn off the TV, close the newspaper. Don't want to see.
This case was like that. Johanne wanted nothing to do with
it. Didn't want to hear.
But that wasn't entirely true, either.
The case fascinated her. It appealed to her. In a
grotesque way that left her breathless. In a kind of unwelcome
epiphany, she realised that she actually wanted to let
everything else go. Johanne wanted to forget Aksel Seier,
drop the new research project, turn her back on Alvhild
Sofienberg. In fact, she wanted to get on the first plane
home and let Isak look after Kristiane. Then she would
concentrate on one thing and one thing only: finding this
person, this beast who went around stealing people's children.
The
work had already begun. She was only able to concentrate
fully on other things for short periods. Ever since
Adam Stubo first contacted her, she had unconsciously,
anxious and reluctant, tried to construct a preliminary picture
of the man, but she didn't have a firm enough
foundation, enough material. Before she left, she had rummaged
around in some old boxes under the pretence of
tidying. Her notes from when she studied in the States
were now on the enamelled shelves in her office. They
were going to be moved somewhere else. A real spring
clean. Nothing more than that, she had tried to convince
herself as she stacked books in piles on the desk.
More than anything, Johanne wanted to help Adam
Stubo. The case was a challenge. A real nut to crack. An
intellectual test. A competition between her and an
unknown offender. Johanne knew that she could all too
easily allow herself to be sucked in, work day and night,
like an exhausting competition to see who was stronger, she
or the abductor; who was quicker, smarter, tougher. Who
was victorious. Who was better.
Her fingers felt around in her pocket for the note. She
opened it out on her knee, flattened the paper with the
edge of her hand and read it again, before suddenly tearing
it into thirty-two pieces and dropping them down the toilet.


27

Aksel Seier got up at dawn, though he had been awake
all night. His head felt incredibly light. He rubbed his
temples and almost fell over when he got up from the bed.
The cat rubbed against his bare legs and uttered some
feeble meows. He picked it up. He sat there for a long time
stroking the animal on the back, as he stared blindly out of
the window.
There was one person who had believed him. Long
before that Johanne Vik woman came along with her fancy
words and incomprehensible sentences, there was someone
who knew that he didn't do what he was imprisoned for.
There was another woman, in another time.
He'd met her just after his release from prison, on his
first, hesitant, visit to a bar. Nine years of abstinence had
taken their toll. The alcohol went straight to his head. He
was dizzy after one pint. On the way to the toilet he fell
against the edge of a table. The woman at the table was
wearing a flowery summer dress and smelt of lilac. When
they couldn't stop the blood there and then, she invited
him back to her room. Just round the corner, she said
quickly. It was early evening. He had to go with her and
that was that. He looked so kind, she said, and laughed a
little. Her fingers were nimble as she dealt with the wound.
Cotton wool and iodine that smelt pungent and dribbled in
a brown stream down his neck. Bandage. The woman's
concerned eyes; perhaps they should go to A&E, it might
be best to get a stitch or two. He could smell the scent of
lilacs and didn't want to leave. She held his hand and he
told her his story, the plain truth; he had only been out for
a week and a half. He was still young and still had some
hope that life would turn around. He'd applied for four jobs
and been rejected. But there were other possibilities.
Things would work out, he just needed to be patient. He
was young and strong and hard-working. And he had learnt
a thing or two in prison.
The woman was called Eva and was twenty-three years
old. At five to eleven, when he had to leave out of respect
to the landlady, Eva accompanied him. They walked the
streets for several hours, side by side. Aksel felt her skin
through the material of her dress when he touched her tentatively,
the warmth from her body glowed through the
coarse woollen jacket he took off and placed over her shoulders
as the night wore on. She listened attentively. She
believed him and gave him a brief hug before running into
the house where she lived. Halfway in she stopped and
laughed out loud - she'd forgotten to give back the jacket.
They started courting. Aksel didn't get a job. Four months
later he finally acknowledged that the truth would get him
nowhere and he made a past for himself in Sweden. He had
worked as a joiner in Tarnaby for ten years, he lied, and
eventually got a job as a driver's assistant. But it only lasted
for three months. Someone at the warehouse knew someone
who had recognised him. Fired on the spot, but Eva
didn't let him down.
The cat jumped down from his lap and he decided to get
away from Harwichport.
He wouldn't go far. A trip north to Maine. Only a few
days. The university lady from Norway would surely give UP after a few days. She had no business here. Even though
she seemed to know the area, she was Norwegian. She had
something to go back to. When she discovered that he'd
gone, she would surely give up. He was not important.
Aksel would go to Old Orchard Beach, where Patrick had
his carousel and earned good money in summer. Patrick and Aksel had been friends since he was in Boston, when he first
came to the USA, and Aksel was washing up in an Italian bar
in North End. Patrick had got his friend a place on a fishing
boat from Gloucester. After two good seasons, they felt rich.
Patrick got a loan and bought the carousel he had always
dreamt about. Aksel had just enough to buy the house in
Harwichport, before the nouveaux riches pushed prices up
and made it impossible for normal people to get a place by
the sea on Cape Cod. The old friends seldom saw each
other and didn't say much when they did. But Aksel would
be welcome at Patrick's. There was no doubt about that.
The cat was meowing furiously. The cat flap was closed.
Aksel left the door to the garden ajar and went to get his
suitcase from the back of the cupboard in the bedroom.
There were four pairs of clean underpants in the drawers.
He folded them carefully and put them in the bottom.
Four pairs of socks. Two shirts. The blue sweater. A couple
of sleeveless vests. He didn't need anything else. The
clothes lay at the bottom of the suitcase, flat and pathetic;
it wasn't even half full. He tightened the straps over the
sweater that lay on top. Then he closed the suitcase, before
he could change his mind. He would take the letters with
him. He had never taken them before on his short trips to
Boston or Maine. They were lying where they always lay,
on the chessboard that he never used because he never had
visitors, a pile tied up with a piece of string. This time it
might be best to take them with him.

He shut the suitcase again.
Holding a bag with three tins of cat food in one hand and
the suitcase in the other, he went out and locked the door.
Mrs Davis was always awake at this time. As soon as he
approached the pick-up, she popped her head round the
kitchen door and shouted cheerfully that it was a lovely day.
Aksel looked up. It could turn out fine, Mrs Davis was
right. The seagulls dropped shells from the skies and
swooped down on to the beach to eat. Two boats glided out
of Allen Harbor. The sun was already high in the sky. Mrs
Davis trotted over the grass in her eternal pink sweater and
took the bag of cat food. It wasn't enough, he explained, as
he would be away for a while. Could she keep a tab? He
would pay her as soon as he was back. When? To be honest,
he didn't know. Had to visit someone. Down south. New
Jersey, he mumbled, and spat. It might be a while. He'd be
grateful if she could look after the cat in the meantime.
'Thank you,' he said, without noticing that he said it in
Norwegian.

'Sorry, sweetie. He's gone.'
Mrs Davis cocked her head and arranged her face into an
expression worthy of a funeral.
'Left this morning, I'm afraid. For New Jersey, I think.
Don't know when he'll be back. Might take weeks, you
know.'
Johanne stared at the cat that was lying relaxed in the
lady's arms and letting itself be tickled. Its eyes were alarmingly
yellow, nearly luminous. Its gaze was arrogant, as if
the animal was making fun of her, an intruder who imagined
that Aksel would be waiting on the steps, excited to
hear what she had to say, ready for questions, newly shaven

and with fresh coffee in the pot. The cat yawned. Its two
small canine teeth glistened as its eyes disappeared into
two slits, far into the ginger fur. Johanne took a few steps
back then turned towards the car.
The only thing she could do was leave her card. For a
moment she wondered whether she should give her card to
the little woman, then she thought about the frightening
cat and instead went over to Aksel's house. She quickly
scribbled a message on the back and dropped it in the post
box. To be on the safe side, she slipped another one under

the door.
'He seemed kind of upset, you know!'
The woman wanted to talk. She came closer, with the

cat still in her arms.
'He's not used to visitors. Not very friendly, actually. But

his heart. . . '

The cat jumped lazily to the ground. The woman
clutched her breast dramatically.
'His heart is pure gold. I tell you, pure gold. How do you
know him, miss?'
Johanne smiled absently, as if she didn't understand
properly. Of course she should speak to the old lady. There
was obviously nothing that went on in the small street that
she didn't know. All the same, Johanne retreated and got
into the car. She was annoyed and relieved at the same
time. It annoyed her that she had let Aksel leave the restaurant
without making another arrangement. It made her
angry that he'd fooled her and just left. At the same time,
his disappearing act was an honest statement. Johanne was
not welcome in Aksel Seier's life, no matter what she had to
tell him. Aksel Seier wanted to sail his own sea. She was
free.
It was now Thursday 25 May and she could go home.
She should ring Alvhild. When she got in the car and
headed towards Route 28, she decided that she wouldn't.
She had so little to tell. She couldn't even remember what
it was that she'd seen in Aksel Seier's house that was so surprising
it had kept her awake half the night.






28



A courier van approached the block of flats. It was drizzling.
The ring road was at a standstill by Ulleval due
to an accident. The chaos had spread like an aggressive
tumour; it had taken the courier more than an hour to drive
a stretch that would normally take only twenty minutes.
Finally, he neared his destination. The driver hooted in irritation
at a taxi that was parked across the flow of traffic. A
young man with a plaster cast and crutches humped his way
out of the passenger seat, stuck his finger up at the driver
and pointed angrily at a police car fifteen metres away.
'Bloody hell,' he shouted. 'Can't you see the road's
closed?'
That was all he needed. No way was he going to even
bother carrying the package up to the flats. He'd been on
the go since seven o'clock this morning. And he had a cold.
He wanted it to be the weekend. Friday afternoon was
always hell. He just wanted to deliver this bloody package
and get home. Go to bed. Have a beer and watch a video. If
only that bloody police car could move. Even though it was
blocking the whole road, nothing dramatic seemed to be
happening. Two uniformed men stood beside the car chatting,
one of them smoking and looking at his watch, as if he
too was longing for home. The taxi finally managed to turn
round, but not without breaking a few bushes by the pavement.
The driver of the courier van revved the engine and
the vehicle slid gently forwards as he rolled down the
window.
'Hey,' said the policeman officiously. 'You can't drive
through here.'
'Just need to deliver a package.'
'No go.'
'Why not?'
'Strictly speaking, that's none of your business.'
'For Christ's sake . . . '
The driver slapped his forehead with his hand.
'It is my business! I've got a package here, a bloody
huge package, that has to be delivered up there, to ... '
He waved towards the block of flats while looking for
something in the mess on the seat beside him. A half-full
can of Fanta fell from a holder on the dashboard. The
yellow liquid ran all over the floor. The driver started to
lose it.
'Up there. Lena Baardsen, 10B, stair 2. So can you please
tell me how . . . '
'What did you say?'
The second policeman bent down towards his face.
'I asked if you had any suggestions as to how the hell I
can do my job when
'Who did you say the package was for?'
'Lena Baardsen, 10B. It's . . . '
'Get out of the car.'
'Out of the car? I. . . '
'Get out of the car. Now.'
The driver was scared. The younger policeman had
thrown away his cigarette and withdrawn a couple of
metres. Now he was standing talking into a handset.
Even though the driver couldn't make out the words
clearly, the tone of his voice made the situation sound
serious. The other cop, a man of around forty with an
enormous moustache, gripped him firmly by the arm the
minute he dared to open the door. He held up his hands
as if he was already under arrest.
'Whoa, easy. I've only got to deliver a package, for
Christ's sake. A package]'
'Where is it?'
'Where? In the van of course. In the back, if you

'Keys.'
'Shit, the doors are open, but I can't just let anyone
The policeman pointed to a spot on the tarmac, three
metres from the car. The driver slouched over as he slowly
lowered his hands.
'I want your number, name, everything,' he shouted.
'You've no right to ... '
The policeman wasn't listening. The driver shrugged his
shoulders. It wasn't his fault if the package wasn't delivered
to where it should be. The office would have to deal with
this. He fished out a cigarette. But couldn't get it to light.
The wind and rain had got stronger. He huddled over the
flame and cupped his hands. Then he suddenly straightened
his back and shivered.
'Shit,' he hissed to himself. The cigarette fell to the

ground.
He'd be fired. He should have turned round the minute
he saw the police car. If he'd been a bit more with it, less
bunged up and tired, he would have turned around sharply.
Just to be on the safe side.
They couldn't fire him. It was nothing. The first time,
he could say. At least he had never been stopped before.
Surely it would take more than that for him to lose his job!
The policemen stood with their heads in the back of the
van, but didn't touch the package that lay there, the last

delivery of the day. Quite a big package, about one hundred
and thirty centimetres long and fairly narrow.
'Is it heavy?'
The man with the moustache turned round to face him.
'Yes, quite. Feel for yourself.'
He was trying to be friendly now. Maybe they just
wanted to see the damned package. Listen to it with some
sort of technical apparatus or whatever it was they did to
make sure it wasn't a bomb. If he answered politely and let
them get on with it, surely they would let him go. Right
now he couldn't care less about the package, he could leave
it on a street corner, for all he cared. As long as they let him

go
But they didn't touch the package.
They had no measuring instruments.
Instead, the driver heard sirens getting closer and closer. When he finally counted four police cars and one police
van, he realised that he was in the middle of something big.
Something in him just wanted to get away, run, run, for
fuck's sake, it's the package they're interested in, not you,
run! Then he gave a resigned sigh and blew his nose in his
hand. Losing his job was the worst thing that could happen
to him. And there could be a bit of hassle with the tax
authorities. In the worst-case scenario. But they couldn't
prove anything.
'They can't bloody well prove anything,' he mumbled to
himself, as he was guided over to the police van by a
friendly policewoman. 'Nothing more than this, at least.'

When the package was opened three hours later, it was
lying on a table. Round the table stood a pathologist with a
goatee beard, Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, Sergeant
Sigmund Berli of NCIS Norway and a couple of officers
from forensics. The package did not contain a bomb. That
was obvious. It measured 134 x 30 x 45 centimetres and
weighed 31 kilos. Thus far it seemed that there were fingerprints
from only one person on the package. And they
presumably belonged to the courier driver. He had handled
it without gloves. It would take a few days before they
could be certain, but for the moment there was reason to
believe that the package had been as good as surgically
cleaned before the driver picked it up. One of the forensic
officers cut the paper, a long, clean cut from top to bottom
down one of the sides, like for an autopsy. The pathologist's
face was wiped of any expression. The officer carefully
lifted a corner of the lid. Two styrofoam balls fell on to the
floor. He opened the package completely.
A child's hand stuck out from the styrofoam.
It was loosely clasped, as if it had just dropped something.
There were remnants of nail varnish on the
thumbnail, which was bitten to the quick. A small ring in
mock gold twinkled on the middle finger. The stone was
blue, light blue.
No one said anything.
The only thing that Adam Stubo could think about was
that it was him who would have to talk to Lena Baardsen. His
eyes were smarting. He held his breath. Slowly he removed
more of the white balls; it was like digging in dry snow. An
arm came into view. Sarah Baardsen was lying on her stomach
with her legs slightly apart. When two of the men gently
turned her over, they saw the message. It was taped to the
child's stomach, a big piece of paper with red letters. Now you 'we got what you deserved.
'Under the table, OK? I was just getting some cash on the
side!'
The driver sniffed and the tears were running.
'And could I get a tissue soon? I've got a bloody cold, in
case you hadn't noticed.'
'I would advise you to calm down.'
'Calm down! I've been sitting here for five hours, for
fuck's sake! Five hours! With no tissues and no lawyer.'
'You don't need a lawyer. You've not been arrested. You
are here of your own free will. To help us.'
Adam Stubo pulled out his own handkerchief and
handed it to the driver.
'Help you with what?'
The man was very distressed. His eyes were red. He
obviously had a temperature and had difficulties in breathing.
'Listen,'
he said pleadingly. 'I would love to help you,
but I've told you everything I know! I got a telephone call.
On my own, private mobile phone.'
He blew his nose loudly and shook his head in despair.
'I was to pick up a package. It would be in the entrance
to a tenement building in Urtegate. The building was due
for demolition and the entrance would be open. There
would be a note on top of the package with the delivery
address, along with an envelope containing two thousand
kroner. Piece of cake!'
'Ahuh. And you thought that was fine.'
'Well, fine . . . Our jobs are supposed to go through the
office and I know that
'I wasn't actually thinking about that. I was thinking
more that you were willing to deliver a package for someone
who didn't even say who they were, simply because
they tempted you with a couple of thousand kroner. That's
what I meant. 1 find that. . . quite alarming, to be honest.'
Adam Stubo smiled. The driver smiled back, confused.
There was something about the policeman that didn't quite

seem to fit.
'What if there'd been a bomb in the package, for example?
Or drugs?'
Adam Stubo was still smiling, even more broadly now.
'It's never anything like that.'
'Right. Never. So this is something you do quite often?'
'No, no, no . . . That's not what I meant!'
'What did you mean then?'
'Listen,' said the driver.
'I'm listening, I'm all ears.'
'OK, so I take a couple of jobs on the side. That's not so
unusual. Everyone . . . '
'No, not everyone. In most courier companies, the drivers
are self-employed. But not BigBil. You're employed by
them. When you take jobs on the side, you're cheating
BigBil. And me, I guess. Society at large, in a way.'
Adam Stubo let out a short laugh.
'But let's leave it for the moment. You couldn't see the
number on your phone?'
'Can't remember. It's true. I just answered the phone.'
'You didn't react to the fact that the man ... it was a
man, wasn't it?'
'Yes.'
'Young or old?'
'Don't know.'
'High voice? Deep voice? Dialect?'
'But I've already answered all of this! I can't remember what his voice was like. I didn't react to the fact that he
didn't say who he was. I needed the money] It's as simple as
that. A quick two thousand kroner. Simple.'
'Couldn't you just take the money and leave the package?'
Adam
Stubo raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin.
'I...'
The driver sneezed. The handkerchief was already
soaking. Adam Stubo looked away.
'You what?'
'If I did that, those people wouldn't call back. With new
jobs, I mean.'
He was less defensive now, his voice was more subdued.
'Precisely. So you realise that this sort of delivery is by
nature a bit dodgy? You understand that no one would pay
two thousand kroner to have a package delivered three
kilometres away if they could do it for a couple of hundred
through legal channels? So there's nothing wrong with your perception?'
The policeman was no longer smiling. The driver hid his
face in the hanky.
'What was in the damned package?' he snivelled. 'What
the hell was in that package?'
'I think you'd rather not know,' said Adam Stubo. 'You
can go. We'll be in touch again later. Hope you feel better
soon. Keep the handkerchief. Goodbye.'


29



Sarah just disappeared. Emilie woke up and was alone.
She had a really sore head and for once it was completely
dark in the room. Emilie must have gone blind. She
lay still for a long time, just staring up. Opened and closed
her eyes, opened and closed. There was no difference.
Maybe a little lighter when her eyes were shut, if she
looked really hard. But then dots swam in front of her.
When she really squeezed her eyes shut, the dots turned
into big bubbles, red and blue and green bubbles. Emilie
laughed and was blind. She wanted to sleep some more.
Her head hurt but she smiled. Wanted to sleep. Then she
thought of Sarah.
'Sarah?' she called out. 'Where are you?'
No one answered. There was no one lying next to her
either. Good. The bed was not really big enough for both of
them. And in any case, Sarah wasn't that nice. She boasted
a lot. Boasted and cried all the time. Couldn't cope when
the man appeared. Screamed and pressed herself against
the wall. Just didn't get it. Didn't understand that the man
made sure that they had enough air. When Emilie poured
her tomato soup down the toilet so the man wouldn't be
upset that she didn't like his food, Sarah threatened to tell
on her.
'Sarah? Sarahsarahsarahsarah!'
No, she wasn't there.
The light came on like a huge explosion. It threw itself
at her from the ceiling. Emilie groaned and rolled up in a

ball with her arms over her head. The light was like arrows
piercing her face and her eyes were trying to creep into her
head and disappear.
'Emilie?'
The man was shouting to her. She wanted to answer but
couldn't open her mouth. The light was too strong. The
room was bright white, all white and silver and gold. Glitter
that cut her skin.
'Emilie, are you sleeping?'
'Nssssnoshh
'I just thought it might be good for you to have some
dark for a change. You've been fast asleep.'
His voice was not by the bed. It was in the doorway, by
the cold door. He was frightened that it would close behind
him. It was nearly always like that. He seldom came in.
Emilie slowly let her arms sink down to the mattress.
Breathe. In. Out. Open your eyes. The glitter hit her. She
tried again. She was no longer blind. When she turned her
face towards the voice, she saw that the man was all dressed up.
'You look good,' she said quietly. 'Nice jacket.'
The man smiled.
'You think so? I have to go away. You'll be on your own
for a few days.'
'Nice trousers, too.'
'You'll be fine on your own. I'll leave plenty of water,
bread, jam and cornflakes over here.'
He put down two carrier bags.
'You'll have to make do without milk. It would only go
sour.'
'Mmmm.'
'If you're good and don't do anything stupid while I'm

away, you can come up and watch TV with me one
evening. Have some sweets and watch TV. On Saturday,
maybe. But only maybe. That depends on how you behave.
Do you want the light on or off?'
'On,' she said, quick as a flash. 'Please.'
His laugh was strange. It almost sounded like a little boy
who didn't quite know what he was laughing at. It was as if
he was forcing himself to laugh but didn't think that anything
was funny. High and hard.
'I thought as much,' he said curtly and left.
Emilie tried to sit up. The man mustn't turn off the air
machine, even though he was going away. She felt so weak
and slumped on her side in the bed.
'Don't turn off the air machine,' she cried. 'Please. Don't
turn off the air machine!'
If only she knew which nail was actually a camera, she
would fold her hands and beg. Instead she put her mouth
right up to a small spot on the wall, just above the bed.
'Please,' she cried to the spot that might be a microphone.
'Please give me air. I will be the best girl in the world, just don't turn off the air!'

30



The newspapers had published two extra editions since
the first tabloids came out at around two in the morning
on Saturday 27 May. The front pages screamed at Johanne
Vik when she glanced over at the petrol station before swinging
into the ICA car park at Ulleval Stadium. It was difficult
to find a parking place. The supermarket was normally busy,
especially on a Saturday morning, but this was pure chaos. It
was as if people didn't know what to do. They obviously
didn't want to be at home. They had to get out. They sought
the company of others who were as anxious, as angry as they
were. Mothers clutched their children tightly by the hand
and the youngest were strapped in to their pushchairs and
prams. Fathers carried older children on their shoulders just
to be safe. People stood around in groups talking, with
friends and strangers alike. They all had newspapers. Some
had a radio earpiece and were listening to the news - it was
midday exactly. They stared straight ahead with great concentration
and repeated slowly to those around them:
'The police still have no leads.'
Then they all sighed. A communal, desperate sigh oozed
over the car park.
Johanne slipped through the crowd. She was there to
shop. The fridge was empty after her trip. She had slept
badly and was annoyed by all the prams and pushchairs that
blocked the big automatic doors. Her shopping list fell to
the ground. It got stuck on the sole of a passing man's shoe and disappeared.
'Excuse me,' she said, and managed to wangle her way
to an empty shopping trolley.
She definitely had to get bananas. Breakfast cereal and
bananas. Milk and bread and something to put on it. Supper
for today, which was easy because she was alone, and tomorrow
Isak was coming with Kristiane. Meatballs. Bananas first.
'Hallo.'
She seldom blushed, but she could feel the heat in her
cheeks. Adam Stubo was standing in front of her holding a
bunch of bananas. He's always smiling, she thought to herself,
he shouldn't be smiling now. He can't have much to be
happy about.
'You didn't call,' he said.
'How did you know where I was? Which hotel?'
'I'm a policeman. It took me an hour to find out. You've
got a child. You can't travel anywhere without leaving a trail
of clues behind you.'
He put the bananas into her trolley.
'You were going to get some?'
'Mmm.'
'I need to speak to you.'
'How did you know I was here?'
'You would have to go shopping. You've been away. And
this is your local supermarket, as far as I know'
You know where I shop, she thought. You've found out
where I shop and you must have been here a while. Unless
you were very lucky. There are thousands of people here.
We could have missed one another. You know where I shop
and you've been looking for me.
She took four oranges from a mountain of fruit and put
them in a bag. It was difficult to tie the knot.
'Here. Let me help you.'
Adam Stubo took the bag. His fingers were stubby but
deft. Fast.
'There. I really need to talk to you.'
'Here?'
She threw out her arms and tried to look sarcastic. Which
was difficult as long as her face was the same colour as the
tomatoes in the box beside her.
'No, can we . . . Can you come to my office? It's on the
other side of town, so if you think it's easier
He shrugged his shoulders.
You want to come home with me, she thought. Jesus, the
man wants to come home with me. Kristiane is . . . We'll be
alone. No. Not that.
'We can go back to my place,' she said casually. 'I live
just round the corner. But you already know that.'
'Give me your shopping list, then we can get this done
in a jiffy.'
'I don't have a shopping list,' she said sharply. 'What
makes you think that?'
'You just seem the type,' he said and let his hand fall.
'You're the shopping list type. I'm sure of it.'
'Well, you're wrong,' she said and turned away.

'You've got a really nice place here.'
He was standing in the middle of the living-room floor.
Luckily she had tidied up. She pointed vaguely in the
direction of the sofa, and sat down in an armchair herself.
Some minutes passed before she realised that she was sitting
poker-backed on the edge of the seat. Gradually, so that her movements weren't too obvious, she leaned back.
'No identifiable cause of death,' she said slowly. 'Sarah just died.'
'Yes. A small cut above the eye. But no internal injuries. A completely insignificant wound, at least in terms of cause
of death. A healthy, strong eight-year-old. And this time
again, he . . . the murderer that is - we don't know if it's a
man or a ... '
'I think you can safely say he.'
'Why?'
She shrugged.
'Well, first of all because it's easier than having to say
"he or she" the whole time. And second, because I am
fairly convinced that it's a he. Don't ask me why. I can't give
you any reasons. Perhaps it's just prejudice. I just can't
imagine a woman treating children like that.'
'And who do you think treats children like that?'
'What were you going to say?'
'I asked . . . '
'No, I interrupted you. You were about to say something
about this time again . . . '
'Oh, yes. The girl also had diazepam in her urine. Just a
tiny amount.'
'What is the point of giving a child tranquillisers?'
'To calm them down, I should think. Maybe he
keeps . . . Maybe he's keeping them somewhere where
they have to be quiet. He has to get them to sleep.'
'But if the reason was to get them to sleep, he could give
them sleeping tablets.'
'Yes. It's possible he doesn't have access to them. He
may only have . . . Valium.'
'Who has access to Valium?'
'Oh, God ... '
He stifled a yawn and shook his head sharply.
'Lots of people,' he replied with a sigh. 'Everyone who
actually gets it prescribed by the doctor. We're talking
about thousands, if not tens of thousands. Then there's
pharmacists, doctors, nurses . . . Even though there are supposed
to be rules and regulations in hospitals and chemists,
we're talking about such a small dose that there's no way . It could be anyone. Did you know that over sixty
per cent of us open the bathroom cabinet when we're in
someone else's house? Stealing two or three tablets would
be the easiest thing in the world. If we ever manage to
catch this guy, it won't be because he's in possession of
Valium or Vival.'
'If we ever,' repeated Johanne. 'That's a bit pessimistic'
Adam Stubo was playing with a toy car. He let it roll
down the back of his hand. The front lights glowed weakly
when the wheels were set in motion.
'She only likes red cars,' said Johanne. 'Kristiane, I
mean. Not dolls, nor trains. Nothing but cars. Red cars. Fire
engines, London buses. We don't know why.'
'What is it that's wrong with her?'
He carefully put the car down on the coffee table. The
rubber on one of the wheels had been torn off and the tiny
axle scraped against the glass surface.
'We don't know'
'She's sweet. Really sweet.'
He looked like he meant it. But he'd only seen her once.
And then only briefly.
'And you're no further forward with the actual delivery
of ... I mean, he must have been in the entrance in
Urtegate, or got someone else to . . . What do you know
about it?'
'Courier. A courier!'
Adam Stubo thumped his index finger down on the roof
of the car and pushed it slowly across the table. A small
stripe in the glass followed in its trail, where the tyre was
missing. Johanne opened her mouth. But said nothing all
the same.
'It's just so ... so impudent! Adam said savagely. He
wasn't aware of what he was actually doing. 'Of course the
guy knew that we wouldn't tolerate another home delivery
of a dead child to the mother. We had checks everywhere.
Mistake, of course. With Sarah's murder, Oslo City Police
are suddenly involved and the relationship between the
NCIS and . . . forget it. We should have been more discreet.
Lured him into a trap. At least tried. He read the signs and
used - a courier! A courier! And no one in Urtegate saw anything
unusual, no one heard anything, no one guessed. The
box with Sarah in must have been left there in broad daylight.
Old trick, by the way . . . '
'It's best to hide where there's lots of people,' Johanne
concluded. 'Smart. All the same, the package must have

been . ..'
She hesitated before adding quietly:
'Quite big.'
'Yes, it was big enough to hold an eight-year-old child.'
Johanne knew herself well. She was a predictable
person. Isak, for example, found her boring after a while.
Once Kristiane was well again and life returned to a set routine,
he started to complain. Johanne was not impulsive
enough. Relax, he said more and more often. It's not that
bad, he sighed in resignation every time she looked sceptically
at the ready-made pizza he fed their daughter when
he couldn't be bothered to make food. Isak thought she was
boring. Lina and her other friends agreed to a certain
extent. But they didn't say so to her face either. On the
contrary, they praised her. She was so reliable, they
enthused. So clever and so responsible. You could always
rely on Johanne, always. Boring, in other words.
She had to be predictable. She was responsible for a
child who would never really grow up.
Johanne knew herself.
The situation was absurd.
She had invited a man home with her, someone she
barely knew. She let him tell her the details of a police
investigation that was nothing to do with her. He was in
breach of the confidentiality clause. She should warn him.
Politely say goodbye. She'd already made her mind up in
the hotel room in Harwichport, when she tore up the message
into thirty-two pieces and flushed them down the
toilet.
'Strictly speaking, you shouldn't be telling me this.'
Adam Stubo drew a deep breath and let the air seep out
between his clenched teeth. He shrank. Maybe he was just
sinking deeper into the sofa.
'Strictly speaking, I shouldn't. Not until we're formally
working together. And I'm starting to get the impression
that you don't want to do that.'
He gave a smile, as if he wanted to be ironic. But then
gave up and continued:
'Strictly speaking, this case is a nightmare. Strictly
speaking . . . '
Again he drew a deep breath.

'My wife and only daughter died just over two years ago,' he said quickly. 'I assume you didn't know.'
'No, I'm very sorry.'
She didn't want to hear this.
An absurd accident. My daughter . . . she was called
Trine and was only twenty-three. Amund was a baby. My
grandson. She was going to ... is this upsetting you? I'm
upsetting you.'
Suddenly he sat up. He straightened his shoulders and
once again filled his grey tweed jacket. Then he smiled
briefly.
'You have more useful things to be getting on with.'
But he didn't get up. He gave no sign of moving. A great
tit had settled on the bird table out on the terrace.
'No,' said Johanne.
When he looked at her, she didn't know what he
wanted. The general impression was that he was grateful.
Relieved perhaps, because he sank back into the sofa.
'My wife had been irritated by a blocked gutter for a
while,' he said blankly. 'I'd promised to do something about
it. For a long time. But I just never got round to it. My
daughter dropped by one morning, said she was happy to
go up on the roof and hose down the gutters. Presumably
my wife held the ladder. Trine must have lost her balance.
She fell, taking part of the gutter with her. Which must
have fallen under her somehow, because it.. . impaled her.
The ladder fell on top of my wife, with Trine's full body
weight. One of the rungs hit her in the face. Her nose bone
was pushed up into her brain. When I came home a couple
of hours later, they were both lying there. Dead. And
Amund was still asleep.'
Johanne could hear herself breathing, short and shallow.
She tried to break the rhythm, to slow the pace.
'I was head of division at the time,' he continued calmly.
'To be honest, I'd seen myself as the next head of the
NCIS for a long time. But after that ... I asked to be a
detective inspector again. Will never be anything else. If I

manage to stay on, that is. Cases like this make me wonder.
Well, well.'
His eyes were uncertain. His smile was shy, nearly
sheepish, as if he had done something wrong and didn't
know how to say sorry. He opened his mouth a couple of
times, clearly to say something more. Then he looked
down at his hands instead.
'Well, well,' he repeated after a while, twiddling his
thumbs. 'I'd better beat a retreat.'
But he still didn't get up. He still made no sign of wanting
to go.
I haven't got room for this, thought Johanne. I haven't
got time for this case in my life. I don't want it. I haven't got
room.. .
'... for you,' she mumbled.
'What?'
Adam was sitting with his back to the big living-room
window. The contrasting light made it difficult to see his
face. Only his eyes were clear. They were looking straight
at her.
'Should I make some lunch, instead?' she asked, smiling.
'You must be hungry. I certainly am.'

He took up so much space.

Isak, the only man who had ever been in her kitchen for
more than thirty seconds, was slight, almost skinny. Adam
Stubo filled the entire room. There was barely space for
Johanne. He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of
a chair. Then he started to make an omelette, without
asking. Johanne could hardly move without touching him.
He smelt newly showered, with a faint aroma of cigars, the
smell of someone who was older than her. When he turned
up his sleeves to cut the onion, she noticed the hairs on his
forearms were light, nearly golden. She thought about
summer and turned away.
'What do you think the message means?' he said, and
jabbed the air with his knife. 'Now you've got what you
deserved. Who got what they deserved? The child? The
mother? Society? The police?'
'In both cases the message has been directed at the
mother, in a way,' replied Johanne. 'Though of course the
murderer couldn't be certain that it would be the mother
who found Kim. It could just as easily have been the father
who went down into the cellar. And as far as Sarah is concerned,
there's reason to believe that the murderer realised
that the package might never be delivered to the address.
He's not stupid. I don't know. I think it's more important to
focus on the content of the message than whom it's
addressed to.'
'What do you mean by content?'

Adam turned on the stove and took a frying pan out of
the lower cupboard without even asking where it was.
Johanne had sat down on a stool and was staring with great
concentration at a glass of iced water.
'In fact, I think you should start from a completely different
angle,' she said slowly.
'OK. What angle?'
He wiped his eyes.
'You should always start at the bottom,' she said more or
less absent-mindedly, as if she was searching for something
in her memory. 'Look at what you've got. Facts. Objective
evidence. Lay the foundations. Never speculate before
you've got the foundations. Dangerous.'
'So that's what you should do.'
'Yes.'
She straightened her back and put down the glass. Good
smells were coming from the cooker. Adam found some
plates and glasses, knives and forks. He seemed to be very
focused as he cut a tomato into a beautiful decoration.
'Here you go,' he said with satisfaction, putting the
frying pan on the table. 'Onion omelette. Now that's what
I call a real lunch.'
'Three children,' she said, chewing slowly. 'If we
assume that Emilie was taken by the same man as Sarah
and Kim. We can't be certain, but let's . . . For the moment,
we'll assume she was. Three children have disappeared.
Two of them have been delivered back. Dead. Dead children.'
'Dead
children,' Adam repeated, and put down his fork.
'We don't even know what they died from.'
'Wait!'
She lifted a hand and continued:
'Who kills children?'
'Sex offenders and motorists,' he muttered grimly.
'Exactly.'
'Hmm?'
'These children weren't killed by a motorist. And there's
nothing to indicate that they were killed by a paedophile
either. Isn't that right?'
He nodded imperceptibly.
'Unless it was sexual acts that leave no trace,' he said.
And that is a possibility.'
'What are we left with then, if it's not a question of sex
or cars?'
'Nothing,' he said, and took another helping.
You're eating too quickly,' she said. 'And you're wrong.

We're left with quite a lot. You, I mean. You're left with
quite a few options.'
The omelette tasted good. A bit too much onion for her
liking, but the dash of Tabasco made it different.
'The fact is that we don't kill children easily. Both you
and I know that most killings in this country are
manslaughter. The percentage of murderers who reoffend
is minimal. Most killings are the result of an ongoing family
conflict, terrible jealousy or . . . pure accident. A drunken
brawl. One thing leads to another. There's a weapon to
hand, a shotgun or a knife. Bang. Someone becomes a killer
and that's that. We both know that. Children are seldom
directly involved, at least not as victims. Other than by
association.'
'That's if we rule out teenagers,' Adam retorted.
'They're killing each other more and more frequently.
And they get younger and younger. I think I would call a
fourteen-year-old a child. He was that age, the boy who
was arrested in January. At Mollergate school, that is.'
Johanne rolled her eyes.
'Yes, yes. But gang violence is also about rivalry.
Misconceived honour. They kill each other, but rarely
anyone else. People who aren't involved. And as far as sex
offenders are concerned, they generally kill to hide their
crime. The abuse. It's very rare that the actual killing is part
of the sexual act. To put it simply, sex offenders kill
because they have to. I've talked to many of them and
some find it hard to live with the knowledge of what they
have done. They are consumed by remorse. Shame. Grief.
Not so much for the sexual act - which they have an astonishing
ability to rationalise - but for the murder. The fact
that a child had to die.'
'What are you getting at?'
He emptied his glass of milk and gently patted his stomach.
'A
person who can kill an innocent child . . . Steal them,
kill them and send them back to their parents with a
grotesque message . . . The actions presuppose a psyche
that allows him to legitimise what he has done.'
'That his actions are perfectly reasonable, as far as he is
concerned. In other words, he's mad.'
Adam was playing with a tube in his breast pocket.
'No, he's not mad. Not in the traditional sense of the
word, at least. He's not psychotic. Then he would never be
able to pull this off. Don't forget how . . . sophisticated his
crimes are. How well planned everything has to be ... It
depends what you mean by mad. A warped . . . mind? Yes.
Mentally ill? No.'
'But it's fine for him to kill a child? Is that what you're
saying? That he thinks it's fine to kill a child, but he's not
mentally ill?'
'Yes. Or no, actually. For all we know he might be sorry
that a child has to die. But he has a higher goal. A mission, if
you like. A kind of. . . task?'
'But for who?'
The cigar tube slipped backwards and forwards between
his fingers. There was the nearly imperceptible sound of
brushed metal rubbing against dry skin.
'Don't know,' she said abruptly.
You're playing me, it struck her. Here I am going on
about things that are so obvious that you must have worked
them out for yourself ages ago. How many murder cases
have you worked on? How many killers with distorted
judgement have you met? You've read volumes about this.
You're fishing. And you think you've got me hooked. For
some absurd reason it's important for you to have me on
board. I won't be fooled.
'Coffee?' she asked nonchalantly, and started to fill the
machine with cold water.
'You know how a profiler works,' said Adam.
She let the water run over her wrist. The jug was full to

overflowing.
'First of all, you would read all our documents,' continued
Adam. 'All the technical evidence and objective facts.
Then you would make a profile for each of the victims.
Which in this case would be relatively simple, as they're
children. And at the same time incredibly complicated,
because you would also need to make profiles for their parents
in order to get the whole picture. Then you would
slowly start to develop a profile for our man, from scratch. If
you're right that is. That it's a man, I mean. That's what
you'd do. If only you were willing to help me.'
The intensity of the last sentence frightened her. She
turned off the water and nearly dropped the jug on the

floor.
'Why? Why?
She spun round and hit the table with her empty hand.
'Can you give me one good reason why an experienced
detective inspector in the NCIS would use so much energy
and to put it mildly, such unorthodox methods, to get a
worthless academic to help him with a case that is so gruesome
that we've experienced nothing like it in this country
before? Can you? Can you explain why you are apparently
unable to take no for an answer?'
There was silence. He studied his hands. Johanne
turned her back to him. The coffee machine gurgled and
burped. Outside the kitchen window, a red Golf drove
slowly from post box to post box down the small road that
was actually closed to traffic.
'At the risk . . .' Adam started quietly, '. . . that you will
think I'm just as mad as . . . that you will think I've flipped.'
She still didn't turn round. The man in the red Golf had
stopped outside number sixteen.
'When I was younger, I was proud of it in a way,' he continued
as quietly. 'In fact, I boasted about it. My intuition.
The boys called me PS - Psychic Stubo. I. . . It's not that I
am actually psychic. I don't believe in that sort of thing. I
can't see where missing people are. But I . . . I've stopped
talking about it. My colleagues started to look at me in a
strange way. Whispering in corners and behind my back. So
I kept shtum. You see, I have this ability . . . no, not ability.
Tendency. I have a tendency to feel the, cases I work on. It's
difficult to explain, really. I kind of develop a hypersensitivity.
I dream my cases. See things.'
The driver of the red Golf flicked a cigarette stub out of
the window then made a U-turn. Johanne couldn't see what
he'd delivered, but the top of the post box in front of
number sixteen could no longer close.
'That's not such a problem,' she said lightly. 'All good
investigators should have intuition. There's nothing paranormal
or supernatural about that. All intuition is, is the
subconscious processing a number of known factors. It
gives you answers that you couldn't come up with using
conscious calculation.'
Finally, she turned round again.
'Some people call it wisdom.' She gave a fleeting smile.
Maybe that's why it's generally seen as a female thing. But what has all this got to do with me?'
'I saw you on TV,' he said. 'And was impressed. And
thought that I had to talk to you. I'd forgotten the whole
thing by the next day. Then later on in the day a friend
from the US called me. Warren Scifford.'
'Warren Sci . . . '
'Exactly. FBI.'
She felt the skin on her arms tightening, suddenly and

uncomfortably.
'We'd passed on information about the abductions to
Interpol, as a matter of course. Warren had come across it in
connection with another case. He called me. I hadn't
spoken to him for over six months. At the end of the conversation,
he asked if I by chance knew a woman called
Johanne Vik. When I told him what you were up to and
how you were, he urged me to use you. It was in fact the
most heartfelt recommendation I've ever heard. The day
passed and I had a lot to do. Then that night I had a dream.
Or rather, a nightmare. I won't bother you with the details.
Because then you would think I was mad.'
He burst out laughing, short and tense.
'But you played a part in my dream, a part that made it
essential for me to talk to you. You have to help me. But
you don't want to. I'll go.'
'No.'
She sat down again on the stool, opposite Adam.
'I hope that Warren didn't mislead you,' she said, subdued.
'I am not a profiler. I only took the one course and
'And was the best. . . '
'Wait,' she cut in and looked him straight in the eyes.
'You've been having me on. You've been deceiving me by
not saying that you knew what my background was all
along. That's not a very good basis for working together.'

She could have sworn that he blushed, a faint heat just
under the eyes.
'But I'll give you five minutes to tell me what you think,'
she continued, looking over at the cooker. 'Five minutes.'
'This investigation is chaos,' he said truthfully. 'There's
an order to the chaos, somewhere, but I keep losing sight of
it, more and more frequently. After the first child, Emilie,
disappeared, everything was still manageable. I was given
overall responsibility and there was a small team working on
the case. Then everything exploded. And the extreme
interest in the media has lifted everything up to another
level. The head honcho of the NCIS now gives all the statements
himself. And since he does little else but talk to the
media, he's never really completely up to date. Sometimes
he jumps the gun spectacularly and then one of us lower
down the ranks gets the blame. I don't mean to criticise.
Honestly. I don't envy anyone who has to face the public
about a case where children are dying like flies and . . . '
He looked over at the coffee machine. Then he got up
and poured the contents into a blue thermos.
'... we haven't got a single bloody lead.' He finished his
sentence with feeling.
Johanne had never heard him swear. In a way, it suited
him.
'Or, to be fair, we have a million leads. But they all lead
to nothing.'
He poured them both a cup of coffee.
'And things are even more complicated now that Oslo
City Police are involved. We don't normally help them with
tactical investigations. They have lots of excellent people,
there's no doubt about that. But now we've made more
mess than a nursery at feeding time.'
'And with all those cooks, why do you need me?'
He lowered his cup slowly. The handle was too small for
his chubby fingers.
'I see you in the role of adviser, of some sort. Someone
I can brainstorm with. It would be easier for me to get
your ideas heard in the system. People will be very sceptical
of you. So it would be sensible to have me as a
middleman.'
He gave a crooked smile, as if he felt it necessary to
apologise for his colleagues.
'I need someone to brainstorm with,' he said honestly.
'Someone outside the system. Outside the chaos, if you like.'
'And how had you thought,' she interjected drily, 'I
would be able to read up on all the case documents when I
had no formal working relationship with the NCIS?'
'That's my responsibility.'
'It's my responsibility to ensure that I'm not shown any
material that is in breach of the confidentiality clause.'
He shook his head in frustration.
'Can't you just give me an answer? This is the last time
I will ask you. Even I draw the line somewhere. Though it
may not seem like that.'
Johanne popped a sugar cube on to her tongue. It
melted against her palate, the sweet taste dripping down
her teeth. He was about to leave. She could tell. She would
never see him again.
'Yes,' she said lightly, as if the man had never asked her
before. "I'll help you, if I can.'
Johanne thought he was going to start clapping.
Fortunately he didn't. Instead, he started to tidy up as if he
belonged there.
Adam Stubo didn't leave Johanne's flat until after seven
that evening. Johanne had already opened the front door.
She didn't know what to do with her hands. She tucked her
thumbs into the top of her trousers.
'You remind me of her,' Adam said calmly as he did up
his jacket.
'Your daughter? I remind you of. . . Trine?'
'No.'
He patted his chest.
'You remind me of my wife.'
Lina came running up the stairs.
'Oh. Hi.'
Her friend looked at the unknown man with open
curiosity.
'Adam Stubo,' stuttered Johanne. 'Lina Skytter.'
'Pleased to meet you.'
'Bye then.'
Adam Stubo held his hand out. Before Johanne had a
chance to take it, he put it helplessly in his pocket. Then
he nodded briefly and left.
'Wow,' said Lina and shut the door behind them. 'Quite
a man! But not for you. Absolutely not.'
'You're right,' said Johanne, irritated. 'Why are you
here?'
'He's too strong for you,' Lina wittered on as she walked
towards the living room. 'After that Warren episode, tough
guys are not for Johanne Vik.'
She threw herself down on to the sofa and then tucked
her feet up.
You need Isak types. Sweet, small men who are not as
intelligent as you.'
'Oh, shut up.'

Lina sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose.
'Did you let him . . . was he allowed to smoke in here?
When Kristiane's coming back tomorrow and everything?'
'Shut up, Lina. What do you want?'
'To hear about your trip to America, of course. Remind
you that we've got the book group on Wednesday. The last
one was the third time in a row you couldn't make it, you
know? The other girls are starting to wonder if you can't be
bothered any more. After fifteen years. Hah!'
Lina flopped back into the sofa.
Johanne gave up and went out to get a bottle from the
wine rack in the cool bedroom. First she picked out a bottle
of Barolo. Then she put it back carefully. Beside the rack
was a box of wine.
She'll never notice the difference, she thought.
On her way back in to Lina, she wondered if Adam
Stubo was a teetotaller. He looked as if he could be. His
skin was firm and even, without open pores. The whites of
his eyes were so white. Maybe Adam Stubo didn't drink at
all.
'Here's your wine,' she said to Lina. 'I think I'll just
have a cup of tea.'

31



It was comfortable to drive. Even though a six-year-old
Opel Vectra was not the best car, he was comfortable. It
was not long since he'd changed the shock absorber. The
car was good. The stereo was good. The music was good.
'Good. Good. Good.'
He yawned and rubbed his forehead. Mustn't sleep.
He'd not stopped at all and was getting close to
Lavangsdalen now. It was twenty-five hours since he'd
rolled out of the garage at home. Well, if you could call it a
garage. The old barn doubled up as a shelter for the car and
storage space for all sorts of junk that he didn't have the
heart to throw out. You never know when you might find a
use for something. For example, he was now very glad that
he hadn't got rid of the old jerrycans that the previous
owner had left behind. They looked rusty and worn on first
inspection, but once he'd given them a good going-over
with a steel-wire brush, they were as good as new. He'd
been collecting petrol for weeks. Got Bobben down at the
Co-op to fill the tank as usual. Not too often and not too
much, no more than he'd usually bought since he moved to
the smallholding. Then, when he got home, he siphoned a
few litres off into the jerrycans. Eventually he had two hundred
extra litres of petrol. He wouldn't need to buy any on
the way north. No stops where he could be seen or leave
behind any fingerprints on money. No video cameras. He
was driving a suitably dirty, dark-blue Opel Vectra and
could be anyone. Joe Bloggs out for a spin. The number
plates were dirty and difficult to read. Not the slightest bit
unusual; after all, he was in the north of Norway and it was

spring.
In Lavangsdalen the snow still lay like a dirty grey frill
round the tree trunks. It was seven o'clock on Sunday
morning. He hadn't passed any cars for several minutes. On
a gentle bend, he took his foot off the pedal. The track he
turned into was wet and ravaged by potholes. But it was
fine. He stopped behind a stony ridge and switched the
engine off. Waited. Listened.
No one could see him. He took off his watch. A big
black diving watch. Alarm clock function. He would sleep
for two hours.
Two hours was all he needed.



*o be expected, really.'
Alvhild Sofienberg took the story of Aksel Seier's
disappearance remarkably well. She faintly arched an eyebrow,
then stroked a distracted finger over her downy upper
lip and made a barely audible smacking sound, as if her
dentures were loose.
'Lord only knows how I would have reacted to news like
that myself. It's hard to imagine. Impossible. But he looked
as if he had a good life?'
'Definitely. Well . . . it's actually very hard to say anything
about his life based on our brief meeting. He lives in a fantastic place. Right by the sea. A beautiful beach. He
has a good house. It seemed like he . . . fitted in. In his surroundings,
I mean. The neighbours knew him and cared about him. That's really all I can say.'
'Incredible,' muttered Alvhild.
'At least, given the circumstances,' said Johanne.
'I mean these new computer things.'
Alvhild waved her fingers around.
'Just think, it took less than a week to find out where in the world Aksel Seier lived. Incredible. Absolutely incredible.'
'Internet.'
Johanne smiled.
You've never thought about getting Internet access? You might enjoy it, as you're just
Lying here dying,' said Alvhild sharply. 'That would be

something, wouldn't it? I've only got my IBM typewriter
from 1982. Unfortunately it's a bit heavy to have on my lap,
but if I have to, I have to.'
She looked over at the desk by the window, where a
berry-red machine stood with a sheet of blank paper at the
ready.
'I don't write much any more. So it doesn't really matter.
I've written my will. My children visit me every day.
They're well cared for and, as far as I can see, reasonably
happy. The grandchildren seem to be behaving themselves.
Sometimes they even come to see me without
making it too obvious that they've been ordered to do so. I
don't even need a telephone. But if I'd been younger
'You've got such beautiful eyes,' said Johanne and swallowed.
'They are so ... blue. They're so unbelievably blue.1 Alvhild's smile was fresh, a smile that Johanne didn't
deserve. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Alvhild's
fingers stroked her cheek, dry and hard, like twigs on a
dead tree.
'Now you've made me happy, Johanne. My husband
used to say exactly the same thing. Always.'
There was a knock at the door. Johanne sat up quickly
and pulled away from the bed, as if she'd been caught in
the act of doing something wrong.
'I think it's time for a rest now,' said the nurse.
'I've got no say over my life any more,' Alvhild complained
and rolled her eyes.
Johanne couldn't withdraw her arm. Alvhild's hand was
grasping her wrist like a clamp.
'You think you can just disappear now then?'
The nurse stood impatiently by the bed, hand on hip
and looking at the ceiling.
'Just a minute,' Alvhild said through tight lips. 'I'm not
quite finished with this young lady. If you wouldn't mind just
waiting in the hall, I'll soon be ready for my afternoon rest.'
The white uniform withdrew with some hesitation, as if
she suspected that Johanne had ulterior motives. They
heard that she didn't go far and the door was left ajar.
'I don't see what more I can do,' stuttered Johanne. 'I've
read the documents. I agree with you. Everything indicates
that Aksel Seier was subject to a gross miscarriage of justice.
I've found the man, travelled halfway across the world,
talked to him. If I was set a task, I've completed it.'
Alvhild laughed, a low, hoarse laugh that swiftly changed
into a dry cough.
'We don't give up that easily, Johanne.'
'But what. . . '
'There must be a notice of death.'
'What?'
'The old woman who went to the police in 1965. She
believed that her son was guilty. That's what led to Aksel
Seier's release! The reason that she went to the police was
that her son had died. All I know about the woman is that
she lived in Lillestr0m. You and your Internet . . . Do you
think you could find a notice of death in the local paper
from June 1965? There would only be mention of one
family member.'
Johanne looked over at the door. Something white was
moving backwards and forwards, impatiently.
'One relative. How do you know that?'
'I don't know' said Alvhild. 'I assume. We're talking
about a grown man living at home with his mother.
According to my only source, the prison chaplain, the son
was retarded. It sounds to me like one of these sad . . . '
She waved her hand.
'But enough about that. Try. Look.'
The nurse's patience was exhausted.
'I must put my foot down now. Mrs Sofienberg needs all
the rest she can get.'
Johanne smiled lamely at Alvhild.
'If I get time, I'll
'You've got time, my dear. At your age, you have all the
time in the world.'
Johanne didn't even manage to say goodbye properly.
Only when she was out on the street did she realise that
Alvhild's room no longer smelt of onions. She was also
reminded of something that she hadn't thought about
since she got back from the States. She had seen something
in Aksel Seier's house, something that had caught
her attention, but too late. For one reason or another,
she'd been reminded of it up in Alvhild's room, during
their conversation. Something that was said, or something
she'd seen.
She developed a headache on the way home.

'He's called the King of America.'
'What?'
It was the ugliest animal Johanne had ever seen. Its fur
was the same colour as the contents of Kristiane's nappies
when she was at her worst, yellowy-brown with darker,
unidentifiable specks. One ear stood straight up and the
other flopped down. Its head was too big for its body. The
beast's tail beat like a whisk and it looked as if it was laughing.
Its tongue nearly wiped the floor.
'What did you say he was called?'
'The King of America. My dog. Dog tag.'
Kristiane wanted to carry the dog, which seemed enormous
to be only three months old. But the puppy didn't
want to be picked up. In the end, Kristiane followed it into the living room, on all fours, with her tongue hanging out of
her mouth.
'Where did she get the name from?'
Isak shrugged.
'We're reading Finn Family Moomintroll at the moment.
The one where Moomin is transformed into the King of
California. Maybe it's from there. No idea.'
'Jack,' Kristiane called from the sitting room. 'He's also
called Jack.'
A shiver ran down Johanne's spine.
'What is it?'
Isak stroked her arm.
'Is something wrong?'
'No. Yes. I just don't understand the child.'
'It's only a name. God, Johanne, it's nothing to get. . . '
'Forget it. What have you been up to?'
She turned her back on him. The King of America peed
on the living-room carpet. Kristiane was about to shuffle
down a cake tin from the cupboard in the kitchen. She was
standing in the top drawer and could fall at any moment.
'Oops!'
Johanne caught her and tried to give her a hug.
'Jack likes cornflakes,' said Kristiane and wriggled loose.
The lid opened and she dropped the tin. The dog came
running. Soon child and dog were rolling in cornflakes.
They crunched against the floor and Kristiane howled with
laughter.
At least she's enjoying this!' Johanne smiled in resignation 'Why
did you choose something so ... so ugly?'


'Shhhh!'	.
Isak laid his finger over her mouth, she pulled back
'Jack's beautiful. Has something happened? You look
so there's something about you.'
'Give me a hand,' she replied curtly, and went to get the
vacuum cleaner.	.
She really could not fathom what had made Knstiane
decide to call the dog Jack, King of America.

33



He felt strangely nervous. Perhaps he was just tired.
The two hours' sleep on a side road in Lavangsdalen,
three quarters of an hour's drive from Troms0, had helped
of course. But he still didn't feel all that bright. The muscles
in his lower back ached. His eyes were dry. He blinked furiously
and tried to squeeze out some tears by yawning. His
nervousness manifested as a prickly feeling in his fingertips
and an uneasy hollow feeling in his stomach. He gulped
some water from a bottle in long, deep draughts. The car
was parked behind the student flats at Prestvannet.
Students come and go. They borrow cars. They have visitors.
It was the perfect place to park. But he couldn't sit in
the car for much longer. Someone would notice. Especially
here, where there were so many single women. He put the
top back on the bottle and took a deep breath.
It took less than five minutes to walk to the small path at
the top of Langnesbakken. He knew that, of course, as he'd
been here before. He knew her habits. Knew that she was
always at home on the last Sunday of the month. Her
mother would come at five o'clock sharp. As she always did.
Just to check. To check her property. Disguised as a family meal. Sunday roast, a good glass of wine and beady eyes.
Clean enough? Nice enough? Has the grouting in the bathroom
been redone?
He knew what would happen. He had been here three
times in the course of the spring. Had a look around. Made notes. It was five to three. He walked round the bend and
looked over his shoulder. No one. It was raining, but not
much. The clouds drowned the mountains on Kval0ya;
they were darker to the west and the weather would worsen
towards evening. He quickly crossed a garden with a light
step and disappeared behind a bush. It was thinner than he'd hoped. Even though he was wearing grey and dark
blue, he would be easily spotted if someone cared to look.
Without looking back, he ran over to the house wall. There
were no neighbours to the north-west. Only small winter
worn birch trees and dirty remnants of snow. He was
breathing heavily. This was not how he had anticipated feeling. Nervousness constricted his throat and he swallowed
quickly, several times. He hadn't felt like this before.
He held tightly on to the small pouch on his belt. Elation.
That's what he should be feeling. A certainty that made
him sing inside. This was his moment.
This was his moment.
He could only just hear her. Without looking at his
watch, he knew that it was three o'clock. He held his
breath. All was quiet. When he peeped round the corner,
he saw that he'd had more luck than he dared hope for. She
had left the pram out on the grass. An old hammock was
lying on the terrace, so there wasn't room for the pram. The
world was silent except for his shallow breathing and an
aeroplane that had started its descent to Langnes. He
opened the pouch. Got ready. Approached the pram.
It was standing under the eaves, out of the spring rain.
But the child was coveted up as if winter storms still raged
round the house. The hood was up. A rain cover was buttoned
over the pram. The mother had also put a net over, to
keep stray cats out perhaps. He struggled with the cat protection.
Unbuttoned and pulled back the rain cover. The
baby was lying in a blue sleeping bag and wearing a hat.
The end of May and the baby had a hat on! Close to the head. The strap under its chin disappeared in a fold of skin on the chubby neck. There wasn't much extra room in the pram. The baby was fast asleep, with its mouth open.
He mustn't wake it.
He would never manage to get enough clothes off the
child.
'Shirt
Panic washed over him like a wave, starting at his feet and then up through his body, winding him. He dropped the syringe. He had to have the syringe. The baby gasped and gurgled. The baby was a great big gaping breathing hole. The syringe. He bent down, picked it up and put it in the pouch, pulled out a piece of paper. His hands were shaking, he dropped the plastic cover. Bent down, picked it up, put it in his pouch. The sleeping bag was filled with down. He pulled it over the breathing hole. Held the dark- blue material firmly between his fingers, his gloved fingers, the child twisted and thrashed, tried to turn away, it was amazing how easy it was to stop it, he held on, pressed firmly and didn't let go, until there was no resistance from under the down and the blue material. But still he didn't let
go. Not yet. He kept pressing with a firm grip. The plane had landed and it was quiet everywhere.
Luckily, he remembered the piece of paper.
'I remembered the message,' he said to himself, once he was in the car. 'I remembered the message.'
Even though he fell asleep at the wheel twice - he woke as the car veered over on to the dirt siding, just in time to Pull back - he managed to drive as far as Majavatn without stopping, other than to piss and fill petrol from the jerrycans

on hidden side roads. He had to sleep. He found a blind
spot for the car on a track by a deserted camping site.
It shouldn't have happened like that.
He should have been in control. It should have been carried
out as planned. Suddenly it was impossible to sleep,
even though he felt sick from lack of sleep. He started to
cry. It shouldn't have been like that. It was his moment.
Finally. His plan, his wish. He cried so loudly that he felt
ashamed, he swore and hit himself in the face.
'Thank God I remembered the message,' he mumbled,
and dried the snot with his fingers.

34



The doorbell jerked her out of a dream. Short rings, as
if someone was trying to wake her without disturbing
Kristiane at the same time. The King of America was whining
in Kristiane's room, so she let the dog out before going
to open the front door. Fortunately it looked as if her
daughter was sleeping undisturbed, and the air in the room
was heavy with sleep and dog piss. The dog jumped up at
her again and again, its claws painfully scratching her bare
legs. She tried to push it away, but tripped and stubbed her
toe on the door frame on her way out into the hall. Afraid in
case the person outside might ring again, she limped swearing
to the front door and opened it.
It was hard to see his eyes. His whole body seemed
smaller, his shoulders bent forwards, and she smelt a faint
trace of sweat when he lifted his hand to ward her off. He
had a flight case tucked under his arm. The handle was
broken so he carried it like a box, open and misshapen.
'Unforgivable,' he muttered. 'But I couldn't make it
before now.'
'What time is it?'
'One. In the morning.'
'I realised that,' she said drily. 'Come in. I'll just go and
put something else on.'
He was sitting in the kitchen. The King of America was
chewing his hand. It was slavering and whining and presumably
hungry.
Hmmm. Recent acquisition?'
She grunted in response and fumbled for the coffee
machine. She should have known it was Adam. When she
woke up, all she thought was that she had to stop the ringing.
If Kristiane woke up in the middle of the night, it
would be the start of a long day. She pulled at the faded
sweatshirt. She had better sweaters than this in the cupboard.
'If
you're going to come again at night, please don't ring
the doorbell. Use the phone. I turn the phone off in the
living room. The one . . . '
She nodded towards the bedroom and measured coffee
into the filter.
'It tings quietly in my room. It wakes me, but lets
Kristiane sleep. It's important for her. And for me.'
She tried to smile, but it turned into a yawn. Groggy, she
blinked her eyes and shook her head.
'I'll remember that,' said Adam. 'Sorry. He's done it

again.'
Her hand felt leaden as she lifted it to her hair, so she let
it fall again until she had a firm grip on a drawer handle
instead.
'What?' she said, flatly. 'What do you mean, done it

again
Adam covered his face with his hands. His voice was

muffled.
'An eleven-month-old boy from Tromso. Glenn Hugo.
Eleven months! You hadn't heard?'
'I ... I haven't watched TV or listened to the radio
tonight. We . . . Kristiane and I were playing with the dog
and went for a walk and . . . Eleven months. Eleven months".
Her outburst hung in the air between them for a long
time, as if the young victim's age held a hidden explanation,
a code or solution, for his meaningless death. Johanne felt the tears in her eyes and blinked.
'But

She let go of the drawer and sat down at the table. His
hands were clasped in front of him and she had a strong urge to put hers on top.
'They've found him already then?'
'He was never abducted. He was suffocated in his pram
during his afternoon nap.'
The dog had flopped down in the corner by the cooker.
It was lying on its side. Johanne tried to focus on the small
ribcage, rising and falling, rising and falling. The ribs stood out under the soft, short fur. His eyes were half closed and his tongue was wet and pink in the middle of all that shitty brown.
'Then it's not him,' she said quickly in a flat voice,
struggling for air. 'He doesn't suffocate them. He ... he
abducts them and then kills them in a way we can't. . . we can't work out. He doesn't suffocate small babies while they're asleep. It can't be the same man. In Tromso, you said? Did you say in Tromso?'
She hit the table with her fist, as if the geographical distance
was the proof she needed: what they were looking at was a tragic but natural death. A cot death, awful, of course, but still bearable. At least for her. For everyone else apart from the family. The mother. The father.
'Troms0.' That doesn't make sense!' She leaned forward over the table and tried to look him
in the eye. He turned towards the coffee machine. Slowly
he got up, seemingly robbed of energy. Opened the cupboard and took out two mugs. For a moment he stood studying them. One of them had a Ferrari on the side,
faded to a pale pink by the dishwasher. The other was
shaped like a tame dragon, with a broken wing and the tail
as a handle. He filled them both and gave the car mug to
Johanne. The steam from the coffee clung to her face. She
gripped the mug with both hands and wanted Adam to
agtee with her. Troms0 was too far away. It didn't fit the
pattern. The killer had not claimed his fourth victim. It
couldn't be true. The dog whimpered in his sleep.
'The message,' he said in a tired voice, and sipped the
hot liquid. 'He left the same message. Now you've got what
you deserved.'
'But
'We haven't released any details about the message yet.
There hasn't been a word about it in the papers. We've
actually managed to keep it secret until now. It has to be

him.'
Johanne looked at the clock.
'Right. Twenty-five past one,' she said. 'We've got four
hours and thirty-five minutes exactly until the alarm clock
in there goes off. So let's get started. I'm guessing that
you've got something in your flight case. Go get it. We've
only got four and a half hours.'

'So the only common feature is the message?'

She leaned back in the chair, frustrated, and folded her
hands round her neck. There were yellow Post-its everywhere.
A big sheet of paper was stuck to the fridge; as it
had been rolled up, they'd had to use masking tape to stop
it falling down. The children's names were written at the
top of each column and information about everything from
their favourite food to their medical history underneath.
The column for Glenn Hugo was almost empty. The only
information they had about the little boy who was not yet
more than twenty-four hours dead, was a preliminary cause of death: suffocation. Age and weight. A normal, healthy, eleven-month-old boy.
A piece of A4 paper over the cooker showed that his parents
were called May Berit and Frode Benonisen and they were twenty-five and twenty-eight years old respectively
and lived in her wealthy mother's house. Both were
employed by the local council. He worked as a rubbish collector
and she was a secretary in the mayor's office. Frode had nine years' elementary education and a relatively successful
career as a footballer for TIL behind him. May Berit
had studied history of religion and Spanish at the
University of Oslo. They'd been married for two years, almost to the day.
'The message. And the fact that they're all children. And they're all dead.'
'No. Not necessarily Emilie. We don't know anything about what's happened to her.'
'Correct.'
He massaged his scalp with his knuckles.

'The paper that the messages are written on comes from two different sources. Or piles to be more precise. Ordinary
copy paper of the type used by everyone with a PC. No fingerprints.
Well... '
He rubbed his head again and a very thin puff of dandruff caught the light from the powerful standard lamp she had taken in from the living room.
'It's too early to say anything definite about the last message,
of course. It's still being tested. But I don't think we should get our hopes up. The man is careful. Extremely careful. The handwriting in each message looks different,
at least at first glance. That might be on purpose. An expert
is going to compare them.'
'But this witness . . . this
Johanne got up and ran her finger over a series of yellow
Post-its on the cupboard door nearest the window.
'Here. The man in Soltunveien 1. What did he actually

see?'
'A retired professor. Very reliable witness, by the way.
The problem is that he ... '
Adam poured himself coffee cup number six. He tried to
suppress an acid burp and held his fist to his mouth.
'His eyesight isn't that good. He uses pretty strong
glasses. But in any case ... He was repairing his terrace. He
had a good view from there down to the road, here.'
Adam used a wooden ladle as a pointer and marked out
the rough map that was taped to the window.
'He said that he noticed three people in the critical
period. A middle-aged woman in a red coat, who he thinks
he recognised. A young boy on a bike, who we can basically
rule out straight away. Both of them were walking down the
road, in other words towards the house in question. But
then he saw a man, who he reckoned was somewhere
between twenty-five and thirty-five, walking in the opposite
direction . . . '
The ladle handle moved across the paper again.
' . . . out towards Langnesbakken. It was just gone three.
The witness is sure about that because his wife came out
shortly afterwards to ask when they should eat. He looked
at his watch and reckoned that he would be finished with
the new railings by five.'
'And there was something about the way he was walking
 '

Johanne squinted at the map.
'Yes. The professor described it as ... '
Adam rummaged around in the papers.
' . . . someone who's in a rush but doesn't want to show
it.'
Johanne looked at the memo with a degree of scepticism.
'And
how do you see that?'
'He felt that the man was walking more slowly than he
wanted to, almost as if he wanted to run, but didn't dare.
Sharp observation, in fact. If it's right. I tried to do something
similar on the way here and there could be something
in it. Your movements become quite staccato and there's
something tense and involuntary about it.'
'Can he give any more details?'
'Unfortunately not.'
The last wing had been broken from the dragon mug in
the course of the night and it stood there, more pathetic
than ever, like a tame, clipped cockerel. Adam put a bit of
milk in his coffee.
'Nothing more than his age, approximately. And that he
was dressed in grey or blue clothes. Or both. Very neutral.'
'Sensible of him. If it really was our man
'Oh, and that he had hair. Thick, well-cut hair. The professor
couldn't be sure of anything else. Of course, we'll
make an announcement, asking anyone who was in the area
at the time to contact us. So we'll see.'
Johanne rubbed her lower back and closed her eyes. She
seemed to be lost in thought. The early morning light had
just started to creep into the sky. Suddenly she started to
collect all the notes, take down the posters and fold away the map and columns. She put everything together in ameticulously thought-out system. The Post-its in envelopes.
The large sheets of paper folded and piled on top of each
other. And finally she put it all back in the old flight case
and then took a can of Coke from the fridge. She looked
questioningly at Adam, who shook his head.

'I'll go,' he assured her. 'Of course.'
'No,' she said. 'This is where we really start. Who kills

children?'
'We've been through this before,' he said hesitantly. 'We
agreed that it was motorists and paedophiles. And when I
think about it, it was a bit flippant really to say motorists,
given the context.'
'They're still responsible for killing most children in this
country,' she retorted. 'But never mind. This is about hate.
A distorted sense of justice or something like that.'
'How do you know that?'
'I don't know. I'm thinking, Adam!'
The white of his eyes was no longer white. Adam Stubo
looked as if he'd been on a bender for three days, an
impression that was reinforced by the smell.
'The hate would have to be pretty intense to justify
what this man has done,' said Johanne. 'Don't forget that he
has to live with it. He has to sleep at night. He has to eat.
Presumably, he has to function in a community where society's
condemnation screams at him from the front of every
newspaper, from every news broadcast, in shops, at work,
maybe . . . '
'But surely he can't. . . He can't hate the childrenV
'Shhh.'
Johanne raised her hand.
'We're talking about someone who wants revenge. Is
taking revenge.'
'For what?'
'Don't know. But were Kim and Emilie, Sarah and
Glenn picked at random?'
'Of course not.'
'Now you're drawing conclusions without any conclusive
evidence. Of course, they may have been picked arbitrarily.
But it's not likely. It's hardly likely that the man suddenly
decided that it was Tromso's turn this time. The children
must be linked in some way'
'Or their parents.'
'Exactly,' said Johanne. 'More coffee?'
'I'm going to throw up soon.'
'Tea?'
'Hot milk might do the trick.'
'It'll only make you go to sleep.'
'That wouldn't be such a bad thing.'
It was half past five. The King of America was having a
nightmare, his little legs flailing in the air, running away
from a dream enemy. The air in the kitchen was heavy.
Johanne opened the window.
'The problem is that we can't find anything that links the blood . .. the parents.'
Adam lifted his hands in despair.
'Of course, that doesn't mean that there isn't a link,'
Johanne argued, and sat down on the work surface with her
feet on a half-open drawer.
'If we just play with the idea for a moment,' she continued.
'That he might be a psychopath. Just because the
crimes are so horrible that it seems likely. What are we actually
looking for then?'
'A psychopath,' muttered Adam.
She ignored him.
'Psychopaths are not as rare as we like to think. Some
people claim that they account for one per cent of the population.
Most of us use the expression about someone we
don't like, and it may be more justified than we think.
Although
'I thought it was called antisocial personality disorder
these days,' said Adam.
'That's actually something different. Though the diagnosis
criteria do overlap, but. . . forget it. Keep up, Adam!
I'm trying to brainstorm!'
'Fine. The problem is that I'm not in a state to brainstorm
any more.'
'So let me then. You can at least listen! Violence . . . violence
can be roughly divided into two categories,
instrumental and reactionary.'
'I know,' mumbled Adam.
'Our cases are clearly the result of instrumental violence,
in other words, targeted, premeditated acts of violence.'
'As opposed to reactionary violence,' said Adam slowly.
'Which is more the result of an external threat or frustration.'
'Instrumental violence is far more typical of psychopaths
than fot most of us. It requires a kind of. . . evil, for want of
a better word. Or to be more scientific: an inability to
empathise.'
'Yes, he doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by that
sort of thing, our man
'The parents,' said Johanne slowly.
She jumped down and opened the damaged flight case.
She went through the papers until she came to the envelope
marked 'parents', then she placed the contents side by
side across the floor. Jack lifted his head, but went quietly
back to sleep.

'There has to be something here,' she said to herself.
'There's some kind of link between these people. It's just
not possible to develop such an intense hate for four children
aged nine, eight, five and under a year.'
'So, it has nothing to do with the children at all?' Adam
questioned, leaning over the notes.
'Maybe not. But then again, maybe it's both. Children
and parents. Fathers. Mothers. How do I know?'
'Emilie's mother is dead.'
'And Emilie is the only one who has not been accounted
for.'
There was a pause. The silence was amplified by the
noise of the wall clock ticking mercilessly closer to six
o'clock.
'All the parents are white,' said Johanne suddenly.
'All of them are Norwegian, by origin. None of them
know each other. No mutual friends. No jobs at the same place. To put it bluntly
'Striking. Or perhaps they've been chosen precisely
because they don't have anything in common.'
'Common, common, common
She said the word over and over to herself, like a mantra.
'Age. Ages range from twenty-five, Glenn Hugo's mother, to thirty-nine, Emilie's father. The mothers range from
'Twenty-five to thirty-one,' said Adam. 'Six years. Not a lot.'
'On the other hand, all the women have small children. The difference can't be that great at all.'
'Do you think there's some connection between the fact that Emilie's mother is dead and that she has still not been found?'

Adam let out a deep sigh and got up. He looked down at
the papers and then started to tidy away the cups and the
coffee pot.
'I have no idea. Emilie doesn't seem to fit in to this at all.
Johanne, I mean it. I can't think any more.'
'I think he's suffering right now,' she said, changing tack.
'I think he made a mistake in Tromso. That child should
have been killed in the same way as the others.
Inexplicable. He has somehow managed to develop a
method that--'
'Leaves no trace,' he finished her sentence bitterly.
'That our army of so-called experts just shake their heads
at. Sorry, they say, no known cause of death.'
Johanne sat completely still, on her knees, with her eyes
closed.
'He wasn't going to suffocate Glenn Hugo,' she whispered.
'That was not supposed to happen. He loves the
control he has over everyone and everything tight now.
He's playing a game. In some way or another, he feels
he's . . . getting even. He got frightened in Troms0. Lost
control. That scared him. Maybe it will make him careless.'
'Animal,' snapped Adam. 'Bloody animal.'
'That's not the way he sees it,' said Johanne. She was
still sitting on her knees, resting on her heels. 'He's a relatively
well-adjusted guy, to all appearances at least. He's
obsessive about control. He's always tidy. Proper. Clean.
He's doing what he's doing now because it's justified. He's
lost something. Something has been taken from him that
he believes is fundamentally his. We're looking for a person
who believes he's acting in his full right. The world is
against him. Everything that's gone wrong in his life is
someone else's fault. He never got the jobs he deserved.
When he didn't do well in his exams, it was because the
questions were poorly formulated. When he doesn't earn
enough money, it's because the boss is an idiot who doesn't
know how to appreciate his work. But he deals with it.
Lives with it, with women who reject him, with promotions
that never arrive. Until one day . . . '
'Johanne
'Until one day something happens that. . . '
'Johanne, stop!'
'Triggers him. Until he can no longer bear to live with
this injustice. Until it is his time to get even.'
'I mean it! Stop! This is pure speculation!'
Her legs had gone to sleep and she made a face as she
pulled herself up with the help of the table.
'Possibly. But you're the one who came to me for help.'
'It smells in here.'
Kristiane was holding her nose. She had Sulamit under
her arm. The King of America licked her face in delight.
'Hello, sweetie. Good morning. We'll let some more air
in.'
'The man smells.'
'I know'
Adam forced a smile.
'The man is going home to have a shower. Thank you,
Johanne.'
Kristiane wandered back into her room, with the dog hot
on her heels. Adam Stubo bashfully tried to hide the sweat
marks under his arms as he put on his jacket. When he got
to the front door, he made to give her a hug. Then he held out his hand instead. It was surprisingly dry and warm. The palm of her hand burned where she'd touched him, long after he had disappeared round the bend by the red house
at the bottom of the road. Johanne noticed that the windows
needed cleaning, there were tape marks all over the
glass. And she had to put a plaster on her little toe. She had
barely noticed it since she'd stubbed it on the door frame as
she went to open the door five hours earlier, but now she
saw that it was swollen and that the nail might fall off. And
in fact, it was very sore.
'Jack's done a poo,' Kristine shouted triumphantly from
the living room.

35



Even though Aksel Seier had never really felt happy,
there were times when he felt satisfied with life. On
days like these he felt he belonged; that he was grounded
in the history that existed between himself and
Harwichport, between him and his grey, cedar-clad house
by the beach. Rain darkened the broken asphalt on Ocean
Avenue. His pick-up truck humped along slowly towards
the house, as if he was still not sure if he wanted to go
home. The grey of the sea met the grey of the sky, and the
intense green of the oak crowns that leaned heavily towards
each other to create a botanical tunnel for part of the road
was subdued. Aksel liked this sort of weather. It was warm and the air felt fresh as it brushed his cheeks through the
open car window. The pick-up bumped into the driveway.
He sat there for a while, leaning back in the front seat.
Then he grabbed the key and got out.
The flag on his post box was raised. Mrs Davis didn't like Aksel's post box. Her own had been rose-painted by Bjorn, who claimed to be Swedish and sold mock Dala
wooden horses to stupid tourists on Main Street. Bjorn
couldn't speak Swedish and had black hair and brown eyes. But when he painted anything, he stuck to blue and yellow. You had to give him that. Airs Davis's post box was covered
m coltsfoot flowers dancing on blue stalks. Aksel's post box was completely black. The flag had once been red, but that was a long time ago now.
'You're back!'
1



Sometimes Aksel wondered if Mrs Davis had a radar in
her kitchen. She had of course been a widow for many years
and didn't work - she lived off the meagte life insurance
she'd got when her husband disappeared at sea in 1975 and
therefore was able to dedicate her time to making sute
she knew how everyone was and what was happening in
the small town. Her efficiency was impressive all the same.
Aksel couldn't remember a time when he had not been
welcomed home by the lady in pink.
He held out a bottle in a brown paper bag.
'Oh dear! Liquor? For me, honey?'
'Maple syrup,' he said gruffly. 'From Maine. Thanks for
taking care of the cat. How much do I owe you?'
Mrs Davis didn't want any money, not at all. He had
barely been away. Wasn't it just four days since he left?
Five? It was no problem. It was a pleasure to look after such
a beautiful and well-trained cat. Syrup from Maine. Thank
you so much! Such a beautiful state, Maine. Fresh and
unspoilt. She should take a trip there soon, herself, it must
be twenty years since she last visited her sister-in-law, who
lived in Bangor, she was the headmistress of a school there,
very clever lady, even though she could be a bit liberal with
the strong stuff. But that was her business and nothing to
do with Mrs Davis, and wasn't he originally going to go to
New Jersey?
Aksel shrugged his shoulders in a way that could mean
anything. He grabbed the suitcase from the back of the
pick-up and walked towards the door.
'But you've got mail, Aksel! Don't forget to check your
mailbox! And the young lady who visited you last week,
she came back. Her card is in the box, I think. What a sweet
girl! Cute as a button.'

Then she looked up at the sky and tripped back to her
house. The rain hung like pearls on her angora sweater and Was about to make her hair flat.
Aksel put his suitcase down on the steps. He didn't like
getting post. It was always bills. There was only one person
who wrote to Aksel Seier and her letters came every half
year, one at Christmas and one in July, loyal and regular as
always. He looked over at Airs Davis's house. She had
stopped under the eaves and was waving enthusiastically at the post box. He gave in. He strode over to the black box and opened the front. The envelope was white. It wasn't a bill. He tucked the letter under his sweater as if its contents
were illegal. A business card fell to the ground. He picked
it up and glanced at the front then put it in his back pocket.
The air in the house was stuffy and a sweet smell mingled
with the dust that made him sneeze. The fridge was
suspiciously quiet. When he slowly opened the door, the light didn't go on and illuminate the six-pack that stood
alone on the top shelf. On the shelf underneath was a plate of stew, covered by a repulsive, green film. It was no more than two months since Frank Malloy had repaired the fridge in return for an embroidered sofa cushion that he took home to his wife. There soon wouldn't be much left to repair, Frank had said. Aksel should treat himself to a new fridge. Aksel took out a can of beer. It was tepid.

The letter was from Eva. But it was the wrong time of year for letters from Eva. Not before July. The middle of July and a few days before Christmas Eve. That's the way
it should be. That's how it had always been. Aksel sat down on the chair under the shark lamp. He opened the envelope with a pewter letter opener decorated with a Viking pattern. He pulled out the sheets of paper with the familiar
handwriting, unclear and difficult to read. The lines sloped
slightly down to the right. He opened out the letter,
smoothed it over his thigh, then held it up close to his eyes.
By the time the can of beer was empty, he had managed
to get through it all. To be absolutely sure, he read the
letter again.
Then he sat there staring out into space.


36

On the one hand, Johanne Vik was quite pleased that
everyone assumed that she had sorted out a cake. She
was the cake buyer, in both her own and others' eyes. She
was the one who made sure that there was always coffee in the staff room. If Johanne had been away from the office for more than three days, the fridge was empty of fizzy drinks and water and there were only a couple of dry apples and a brown banana left in the fruit bowl. It was unthinkable that any of the office staff might look after that sort of thing.
Remnants of a seventies work ethic still lingered in the university,
and in fact it suited her quite well. Normally. But now she was extremely irritated.
They had all known about FYedrik's fiftieth birthday for
ages., He had certainly reminded them of the big day often enough. It was over three weeks since Johanne had collected
the money, two hundred kroner each, and gone to Ferner Jacobsen on her own to buy an expensive cashmere
sweater for the institute's most snobby professor. But she'd forgotten the cake. No one had reminded her to remember, yet everyone still stared at her in astonishment when she came back from the university library. At lunch there'd been no marzipan-covered walnut cream cake on the table.
No songs, no speeches. Fredrik was really pissed off. And me others seemed to think they'd been wronged, that she had betrayed her colleagues at a crucial moment.
Someone else could make the effort sometimes,' she said, and closed the door to her office.

It was unlike her to forget something like that. The
others did have reason to rely on her. They always had and
she had never said anything. If she'd remembered the
blasted birthday, she could have just asked Tine or Trond
to buy a cake. After all it was his fiftieth. And she couldn't
blame Adam either. Even though he had robbed her of a
whole night's sleep, she was used to that sort of thing.
Something she'd learnt in the first years with Kristiane.
She pulled a photocopied page from her bag. The university
library had every edition of all the local papers on
microfilm. It had taken her less than an hour to find the
announcement. It had to be the right one. As if by fateful
irony, or perhaps as a result of a local print settet's sensitivity,
the death announcement was tucked away in the
corner, right at the bottom of the page, unobtrusive and
alone.

My dear son ANDERS MOHAUG
born 27 March 1938,
passed away on 12 June 1965.
The funeral service took
place in private.
Agnes Dorothea Mohaug


So the man was twenty-seven when he died. In 1956,
when little Hedvig was abducted, taped and killed, he was

eighteen.
'Eighteen . . .'
There was no obituary. Johanne had looked for something,
but gave up after she'd trawled through every paper
in the four weeks after the funeral. No one had anything to
say about Anders Mohaug. His mother didn't even need to
say 'no flowers'.
How old would she be now? Johanne worked it out on her fingers. If she was twenty-five when her son was born,
she would be nearly ninety today. Eighty-eight. If she was
alive. She might be older. She could have had her son later.
'She's dead,' Johanne said to herself, and put the photocopy
in a plastic sleeve.
But she decided to try all the same. It was easy enough
to find the address in a telephone directory from 1965.
Directory enquiries informed her that a completely different
woman now lived at Agnes Mohaug's old address.
Agnes Mohaug was no longer registered as having a phone,
said the metallic voice.
Someone might remember her. Or her son. It would be best if someone could remember Anders.
It was worth a try, and the old address in Lillestrom was
as good a starting point as any. Alvhild would be happy. And for some reason that was now important to Johanne. To
make Alvhild happy.



37



Emilie seemed smaller. She had somehow shrunk, and
that irritated him. His jaw was tense, he heard his
teeth grinding and tried to relax. Emilie couldn't complain
about the service. She got food.
'Why are you not eating?' he asked harshly.
The child didn't answer, but at least she tried to smile.
That was something.
'You have to eat.'
The tray was slippery. The bowl of soup skidded from
side to side as he bent to put it down on the floor.
'Promise me you'll eat this?'
Emilie nodded. She pulled the duvet up, right up to her
chin; he couldn't see how thin she was any more. Good. She
stank. Even over by the door he could smell the urine.
Unhealthy. For a moment he considered going over to the
sink to see if she'd run out of soap. But then he decided
against it. To be fair, she'd been wearing the same clothes
for several weeks now, but she was hardly a baby. She could
wash her knickers when she wanted to. If there was soap

left.
'Do you wash yourself?'
She nodded carefully. Smiled. Strange smile she had,
that kid. Subservient, somehow. Womanly. The girl was
only nine and had already learnt to smile submissively. Not
that that meant anything. Only betrayal. A woman's smile.
Again he felt a pain at the back of his jaw, he had to pull
himself together. Relax. He had to regain control. He had
lost it in Tromso. Nearly. Things hadn't quite gone according
to plan. It wasn't his fault. That it was so cold. May!
finally and the child had been packed in as if it were midwinter.
Surely it couldn't be good for the child. But that
didn't matter now. The child was dead. He had managed to get back home. That was the most important thing. He was still in control. He took a deep breath and forced his
thoughts into place. Where they belonged. Why did he
have this girl here?
'You watch yourself,' he said quietly.
He hated the smell of the child. He himself showered
several times a day. He was never unshaven. His clothes
were always freshly ironed. His mother could smell like
Emilie sometimes, when the nurses were too late. He
couldn't stand it. Human decay. Degrading bodily smells that stemmed from a lack of control. He swallowed hard,
his mouth filled with saliva and his throat felt constricted and sore.
'Should I turn off the light?' he asked, and took a step
back.
'No!'
She was still alive.
'No! Don't!'
'Then you have to eat.'
In a way it was exhilarating to stand here like this. He had attached the iron door to the wall with a hook. But it could still close. If he was not careful. If he, for example, fell, or he lost his balance for a moment and fell towards the door, the hook would slip out of the eye and the door would slam behind him. They would both be done for. Him and the girl. He was breathing fast. He could go into the room and trust the hook. It was a solid bit of kit, he'd made it
himself. A screw eye screwed deep into the wall, with a
plug to keep it well in place. A hook. Big. It was solid and
would never jump out by itself. He walked further into the
room.
Control.
The weather had let him down. He had to suffocate the
child. That wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't planned
to abduct the boy, as he had with the other two. It was
smart to do things differently each time. Confusing. Not for
him, of course, but for the others. He knew that the boy
slept outside for at least a couple of hours every afternoon.
After an hour, it was too late. Not for him, but for the
others.
It would have been better if Emilie was a boy.
'I've got a son,' he said.
'Mmm.'
'He's younger than you.'
The child looked terrified. He took yet another step
closer to the bed. Emilie clung to the wall. Her face was all
eyes.
'You smell disgusting,' he said slowly. 'Haven't you
learnt how to wash yourself? You can't come up and watch
TV if you stink like that.'
She just continued to stare at him. Her face was white
now, not skin-coloured, not pink. White.
'You're quite a little madam, you are.'
Emilie's breathing was hyper fast. He smiled, relaxed.
'Eat,' he said. 'It's best you eat.'
Then he walked backwards to the door. The hook felt
cold against his skin. He lifted it carefully out of the screw
eye. Then he let the door close slowly between him and
the child. He put his hand on the light switch and was
happy that he'd been smart enough to put it on the outside.
He flicked the switch down. There was something peculiarly
satisfying about the actual click, a pleasing resistance
that made him do it several times. Off on. Off on off.
Finally he left the light on and went upstairs to watch
TV.

38


We've got lists of all the people who flew in and out of
Tromso in the time before and after Glenn Hugo's
death. Tromso Police have done a fantastic job of collecting
in videos from all the petrol stations within a three hundred-kilometre
radius. The bus companies are trying
to draw up passenger lists, but it's a lot more difficult. The
coastal express boat is doing the same and so are the local
ferries.'
Sigmund Berli scratched his neck and tugged at his shirt
collar.
'And there aren't really many other ways to get in and
out of the Paris of the North. We haven't approached the
hotels yet. Seems unlikely that the guy would book in to a
hotel, somehow . . . having just killed a baby, I mean.'
'There must be . . . hundreds of names.'
'Several thousand, I'm afraid. The boys are working flat
out to get them on to the computer system. Then they're
checked against. . . '

Berli looked over at Adam Stubo's noticeboard, where
pictures of Emilie, Kim, Sarah and Glenn Hugo were
pinned up with big blue drawing pins. Only Kim was smiling
shyly, the other children all stared solemnly at the
camera.
' . . . the parents' information, who they've met and
known and been in contact with. Shit . . .These lists are
getting absurd, Adam.'
His voice broke and he coughed.
'I know that it's necessary. It's just so ... '
'Frustrating. A whole lot of names and no connections.'
Adam gave a long yawn and loosened his tie.
'What about the man who was seen in ... '
He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.
'Soltunveien,' he remembered. 'The man in grey or blue.'
'No one has come forward,' said Sigmund Berli, his voice a bit stronger now. 'Which makes the sighting all the more
interesting. And our witness was right, the woman in the red coat was a neighbour, she said herself that she must
have turned into the road from Langnesbakken around ten
to three. The boy on the bike has also been identified, he
came forward with his father this morning and obviously has nothing to hide. Neither of them saw or heard anything
suspicious. The man who was rushing without wanting
to ... show it? He hasn't come forward. So that could be... '
'Our man.'
Adam Stubo got up.
'He was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty- five. Had hair. Anything else?'
He was facing the pictures of the children, his eyes running
over the series of photographs, backwards and forwards.
'Not really, I'm afraid. This witness, can't remember his name off the top of my head, is evidently very careful not to say too much. He has described the walk and the build, but refuses to help to make an artist's impression of the face.'
'Sensible, really. If he doesn't feel that he saw it properly.
Why does he think the man was around thirty?'
His body. His hair. The way he was walking. Energetic,
but not youthful. His clothes. The whole lot. But between
twenty-five and thirty-five is hardly precise.'
Adam Stubo rocked on his heels.
'But//"...'
He suddenly turned round to face his colleague.
'// someone doesn't come forward soon who fits that
description and had some legitimate errand there that
Sunday afternoon, we are definitely a step closer.'
'A step,' Berli repeated, and nodded. 'But not much
more. We've always assumed that it must be a man. In fact,
he could be between twenty and forty-five. There are
plenty of men in that age group in Norway. With hair too.
But it could easily have been a wig, for all we know.'
The phone rang. It seemed, for a second, that Adam
Stubo was not going to answer. He stared at the machine
then snatched up the receiver.
'Stubo,' he barked.
Sigmund Berli leaned back in the chair. Adam didn't say
much, but listened a lot. His face was empty of expression,
only a slight rise of the left eyebrow to indicate some surprise
at what he was being told. Sigmund Berli ran his
fingers over a cigar box on the desk in front of him. The
wood was smooth and pleasing to touch. He suddenly had
an empty and uncomfortable feeling of hunger; his stomach
hurt even though he didn't really want any food. Adam finished
the conversation.
'Anything new?'
Adam didn't answer. Instead he let his chair swing
halfway round on its axis, so that he could study the faces of
the children on the wall again.
'Kim had a mother and a father who live together
Married. The same was true for Glenn Hugo. Sarahs
mother was single, but the girl stayed with her father every other weekend. Emilie's mother is dead. She lived with her father.'
'Lives,' corrected Berli. 'Emilie might still be alive. In
other words, these children represent a fair average of children
in Norway. Half of them live with both parents and half of them with one parent.'
'Only, Emilie's father is not really Emilie's father.'
'What?'
'That was Hermansen at Asker and Baerum,' said Adam,
pointing to the phone. 'A doctor contacted them. He didn't know how important... or rather, if what he had to say was of any importance to the investigation. After this weekend's
events, he agreed with his superiors that he should break patient confidentiality and tell us that Emilie's father is not her biological father.'
'Has Tonnes Selbu ever said anything to that effect?'
'He doesn't know.'
'He doesn't know that. . . He doesn't know he's not his
daughter's father?'
They both stared at the photograph of Emilie. The picture
was bigger than the others, taken by a professional
photographer. The child had a small chin with a hint of a cleft. Her eyes were big and serious. Her mouth was small, with full lips, and she had a crown of coltsfoot in her fair hair. One flower had fallen loose and hung down on her forehead.
'Tonnes Selbu and Grete Harborg were married when Grete got pregnant. Tonnes was automatically registered as
the child's father. No one has ever questioned it. Except Perhaps the mother, she must. . . Anyway. Two years ago, Grete and Tonnes decided to register as bone-marrow
donors. There was something about a cousin who was ill
and the whole family . . . Well, to the doctor's great surprise,
the tests showed that Tonnes was definitely not the father
of his child. It was discovered by accident. The doctor had
taken a test of Emilie earlier, in another context, and . . . '
'But they didn't tell the man?'
'Why? What's the point?'
Adam was standing up close to the photo of Emilie. He studied it in detail and drew his finger over the crown of
yellow spring flowers.
'Tonnes Selbu is a good father. Better than most, according
to the reports. I completely understand the doctors.
Why should they foist that news on the man when he hasn't
asked for it? What good would it do him?'
Sigmund Berli stared in disbelief at the photograph of
the nine-year-old.
'I would want to know. Shit, if Sture and Snorre are not
mine, then
'Then what? Then you wouldn't want them?'
Berli snapped his mouth shut, audibly. The snap made
Adam laugh, a dry laugh.
'Forget it, Sigmund. What's important is to find out
whether the information is relevant to us. For the investigation.'
'And
why should it be?' he asked, unfocused.
Snorre was dark like Sigmund Berli. Square. Like peas
in a pod, people used to say. And even though he wasn't
usually much good at things like that, even he could see
clear similarities between his son now and pictures of himself
as a five-year-old.
'Obviously, I've got no idea! Get a grip.'
Adam snapped his fingers in front of Sigmund's face.

'The first thing we should find out is if the same applies to any of the others.'
'You mean whether the other children are in fact their
fathers' children? And we should check that just before the funeral, knock on the door and say excuse me, my good man, but we have reason to believe that you are not the father of the child you just lost, so please can we have a
blood sample? Well? Well? Is that what you mean?'
'What's wrong with you?'
Adam's voice was quiet and calm. Sigmund Berli normally
envied him that, his older colleague's ability to control himself, to think clearly at all times, to talk precisely.
But now Berli was furious.
'Bloody hell, Adam! Have you thought of putting the last nail in the coffin for these men or what?'
'No. I thought we would do it discreetly. Very discreetly.
I don't want Tonnes Selbu getting wind of what we're talking
about right now. And as for the other fathers, it's your job to come up with something, to make taking a blood test seem natural. Pronto.'
Sigmund Berli drew a deep breath. Then he put his fingertips
together and twiddled his thumbs.
'Any ideas?'
'No. That's your problem.'
'OK.'
"I'm sure,' Adam started, in a conciliatory tone, like a father holding out his hand to an unreasonable son. 'No, let's put it another way: there are two things we have to find out as soon as possible. One is whether the children are their fathers' children. The other is ... '
Sigmund Berli stood up.
I'm not finished,' said Adam.
'Well, hurry up and finish then, because I've got plenty
to be getting on with.'
'We have to find out how Kim and Sarah died.'
'The doctors say they don't know.'
'Well, then they will have to look more closely. Make
new tests. I don't know. But we have to know what the
children died from and we have to know if they have an
unknown father out there.'
'Unknown father?'
Sigmund Berli was calmer now. He had unbailed his fists
and was breathing more freely.
'You mean that these children might be . . . half-brothers

and sisters?'
T don't mean anything,' said Adam Stubo. 'You'll have to
find some way of getting the tests made. Good luck.'
Sigmund Berli said something under his breath. Adam
Stubo was sensible enough not to ask what it was. Sigmund
sometimes said things he didn't mean. That is, once they
had been said. And Adam knew very well what his colleague
was thinking. Sigmund Berli's oldest son was a fair
and slight boy. His mother, through and through, he used to
say himself with barely disguised pride.
When the door shut behind Sigmund, Adam Stubo
dialled Johanne's number at work. There was no reply. He
let it ring for a long time. To no avail. Then he tried her at
home. She wasn't there either, and he discovered that he
was annoyed that he didn't know where she was.


39



The building was obviously from the post war period.
The fifties perhaps. A square building with four flats,
no doubt with two bedrooms, a kitchen, sitting room and bathroom. The area was relatively big; lack of space was not a problem for small towns in Norway after the Second World War. The building had recently been renovated. The walls were painted with thick yellow paint and the roof tiles
looked new. Johanne parked on the road, right outside the gate. The fence was also newly painted, the green paint so shiny that she wondered if it was still wet.
It smelt of small town.
The sound of a car, a jumble of voices from a kindergarten
behind a high fence, hammering from a building site across the road, the joiners slinging obscenities at one another, a sudden peal of female laughter from an open window. The sounds of a small town. The smell of someone
baking bread. The feeling that she was being watched as she walked up to the porch by the front door, without knowing who was watching, what they were thinking or whether they were thinking anything other than 'Here conies a stranger, someone who doesn't belong here.'
Johanne had been born and brought up in Oslo. She knew very little about small towns and admitted it freely.
All the same, there was something about places like this that appealed to her. They were manageable. Transparent. ne feeling of being part of something that is not too big
^d unpredictable. She had often thought recently that,
with modern technology, she didn't need to live in Oslo any
more. She could move away, move to the country, to a small
village with five shops and a garage, a dilapidated cafe and
a bus station, cheap housing and a school for Kristiane with
only fifteen pupils in each class. But of course she couldn't,
not with Isak and her parents in town, not with Kristiane,
who needed people around her, all the time. But it had
crossed her mind. She could feel the eyes trained on her
from the first floor of the yellow building, from the
panorama window in the villa over the road, eyes that
watched from behind the blinds and curtains; she had been
noticed and was being watched, and the thought made her
feel bizarrely safe.
'Lillestr0m. Jesus. Here I am romanticising about

Lillestrom.'
The housing cooperative's maintenance fund had obviously
run dry when they got to the doorbells. They were
hanging from the wall, speckled with yellow paint. Johanne
tried to press one of the bells. She had to hold the plate
with one hand and press with the other. She heard a horrible
ringing sound somewhere in the distance. No one
reacted, so she pushed the next one. The lady on the first
floor, who had been watching her from the kitchen window
unaware that she was visible from the drive, stuck her head

out.
'Hallo?'
'Hi. My name's Johanne Vik. I wanted to ... '
'Wait a moment!'
The woman padded down the stairs. She smiled expectantly
at Johanne as she opened the door a bit.
'What can I do for you?'
'My name is Johanne Vik. I work at Oslo University and

I'm looking for someone who might know what happened to a lady who lived here before. Many years ago, to be honest.'
'Oh?'
The woman was well over sixty. Her hair was covered by
a chiffon scarf. Johanne could see big blue and green hair
rollers under the bluish-green semi-transparent material.
"I moved here in 1967,' she said, without showing any
sign of letting Johanne in. 'So maybe I can help? Who is it
you're looking for?'
'Agnes Mohaug,' said Johanne.
'She's dead,' said the woman, smiling broadly, as if she was happy to be able to give this information. 'She died the year I moved in. Just after, in fact. She lived there.'
The woman lifted her hand lazily. Johanne assumed she
was pointing at the ground floor to the left.
'Did you know her?'
The woman laughed. The roots of her teeth flashed grey against unhealthy pink gums.
'I don't think there was anyone who knew Agnes
Mohaug. She'd lived in the house since it was built. In 1951, I think it was. But still there was no one who really . . . She had a son. Did you know that?'
'Yes. I'm looking
'A ... a simpleton, if you know what I mean. Not that I knew him, he's dead as well.'
She laughed again, hoarse and hearty, as if she found the
extinction of the little Mohaug family immensely funny.
'He wasn't quite right, so they say. Not right at all. But Agnes Mohaug herself. . . No one said a word against her. Kept herself to herself. Always. Sad story, about the boy...'

The woman broke off.
'The boy who what?' asked Johanne carefully.
'No ...'
She thought about it. Then she quickly patted her rollers.
'It was such a long time ago. And I don't remember Mrs
Mohaug that well. She died only a few months after I'cj
moved in. Her son had been dead for years. A long time, at
least.'
T see.'
'But...'
The woman lightened up. Again she smiled, so that her
narrow face looked like it would split in two.
'Go and ask Hansvold in number forty-four. Over there!'
She waved in the direction of a green twin building that
was a few hundred metres away, separated from number
forty-five by a big lawn and hip-high metal fence.
'Hansvold has lived here longest. He must be over
eighty, but he's clear as a bell. If you hold on a moment, I'd
be happy to take you over and introduce you
She leaned forward to whisper, without opening the door
any wider.
' . . . after all, I know you now. Just one moment.'
'Don't worry, that's really not necessary,' said Johanne
quickly. 'I'll manage myself. But thank you very much for
your help. Thank you.'
Johanne started to stride towards the gate, so that the
woman with the chiffon scarf would not have time to
change. A child screamed loudly in the kindergarten. The
joiner on the scaffolding over the road swore loudly and
threatened to sue a man in a suit who was waving his arms
and pointing at a cement mixer that had fallen over. A car
bumped over a speed ramp as Johanne came out on to the
road; she jumped and put her foot in a puddle.
The small town was already starting to lose some of its charm.

'But I'm still not entirely clear why you want to know all this'
Harald Hansvold knocked his pipe against a large crystal ashtray. A fine shower of burnt tobacco sprinkled over the sparkly surface. The old, well-dressed man obviously had problems with his eyesight. A matt grey film blurred the edges of one of his pupils and he had given up using glasses. Johanne suspected that he saw only shadows around him. He had let her, a complete stranger, get some sparkling apple juice and biscuits from the kitchen. Otherwise he seemed healthy; his hands were steady when he refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco. His voice was calm and he had no problem remembering Agnes Mohaug, the neighbour with the less than fortunate son, as he chose to put it.
'He was easily led astray. That was the main problem, as
I remember. Of course, it wasn't easy for him to make friends. Real friends, I mean. You have to remember that times were very different then . . . people's tolerance of others was different. . . '
He gave a tight smile.
'... not like it is now.'
Johanne didn't know whether the man was trying to be ironic. She had a pain in her chest and she took a large drink of the apple juice. It was far too sweet, and in a fluster
she let most of it run out of her mouth again and back
into the glass.
Anders was not a bad boy,' Hansvold continued, not oticing. 'My wife used to invite him in every now and
then. It worried me sometimes. I was away a lot, travelling.
I'm a retired train driver.'
The fact that Harald Hansvold was so consistently polite
was perhaps not so strange, given his age. But there was
something unexpectedly refined about the old man and his
flat, with books from floor to ceiling and three modern lithographs
on the walls. Somehow it didn't tally with a lifelong
career in the state railways. Afraid that her prejudices would
be too obvious, Johanne nodded eagerly to show interest, as
if being a train driver was something she had always wanted
to know more about.
'When he was very young, it wasn't a problem of course.
But when he reached puberty . . . He grew to be a big man.
Good-looking chap. But, you know
He made a telling movement with his finger at his

temple.
'And then there was that Asbjorn Revheim.'
'Asbjorn Revheim?'
'Yes. No doubt you've heard of him?'
Johanne nodded, confused.
'Of course,'she mumbled.
'He grew up round here. Didn't you know that? You
should read the biography that was published last year.
Incredible man. Very interesting book. You know, Asbjorn
was always a rebel, even as a young lad. Dressed strangely.
Behaved in a bizarre fashion. He really wasn't like the

others.'
'No,' said Johanne uncertainly. 'He never was.'
Harald Hansvold chuckled and shook his head.
'One Sunday, it must have been in 1957 or '58 . . . It was
'57! Just after King Haakon died, only a few days after. all the
country was in mourning and
He sucked on his pipe, which didn't seem to want to light up properly.
'The boy organised an execution outside the kindergarten.
That is, the kindergarten wasn't there then. It was a
scout hut before. At the time.'
'An . . execution?'
'Yes, he caught a wild cat and dressed it up in royal
clothes. Ermine and a crown. The cape was an old rabbit skin with spots painted on. He'd made the crown himself as well. The poor cat meowed and tried to get away and had
to pay for it with its life on some home-made gallows.'
'But that. . . that's . . . animal torture!'
'It certainly was!'
But he still couldn't repress a smile.
'It got very lively, I can tell you! The police came and the ladies down the road here screamed and made a fuss. Asbjorn made a big number of the whole thing too and claimed that it was a political demonstration against the royal family. He wanted to burn the dead cat and had already built a fire when the authorities got involved and stopped the whole thing. You can imagine, when our beloved King Haakon had just died
Suddenly the smile disappeared. The grey eye became even duller, as if the old man was looking into himself, back in time.
'The worst thing was,' he said quietly, his voice completely changed. 'The worst thing was that he'd got Anders
to dress up as the executioner. With a bare torso and a big black hood on his head. Agnes Mohaug was deeply affected
by the incident. So that's how things were.'
It was so quiet in the flat. No clocks, no distant radio that
no one was listening to. Harald Hansvold's flat was not an
old man's flat. The furniture was neutral, the curtains were
white and there were no pot plants on the window sill.
'Have you read Revheim?' Hansvold asked in a friendly

tone.
'Yes. Most of it, I think. He's the sort of writer you get a
kick out of when you're in secondary school. I certainly did.
He was so . . . direct. Rebellious, as you said yourself. So
strong ... in standing alone. Alone in what he believed in.
So it really appeals to that age group.'
'There were other things, too,' he said. 'That he wrote,
I mean. That interest children at that age. Secondary

school.'
'Yes. Anders Mohaug, was he ... '
'As I said,' Hansvold sighed heavily. 'Anders Mohaug
was easily led. The other children round here avoided him
like the plague, but Asbjorn Revheim was friendlier.
Or... '
Again he got that far-off look in his eyes, as if he was
rewinding his memory and didn't quite know where to

stop.
In fact he wasn't a friend. He exploited Anders. There's
no doubt about that. And he could be pretty nasty, as we
saw time and again. Also in what he wrote. Anders Mohaug,
a heavy, slow chap. In every way. It wasn't friendship.'
'How can you say that?' said Johanne.

I can and I will.'
For the first time there was a sharpness in his voice.
'Did you ever hear,' Johanne asked quickly, 'about a
police case in 1965?'
'A what? A police case?'
'Yes. Was Anders ever in trouble with the police?'
'Phuh . . . He was pulled in to the station every time

Asbjorn decided to do something and take the poor boy
along with him. But it was never anything serious.'
'And you're sure about that?'
'Tell me ... '
She could swear that he looked like an eagle now. The
matt grey film over his left eye made it look bigger than the
right, it was impossible to look at anything else.
'Could you be a bit more precise?'
I have reason to believe that Anders's mother contacted
the police in 1965, after her son died. She believed that he
was guilty of a crime many years before. Something serious.
Something that another man was sentenced for.'
'Agnes Mohaug? Mrs Mohaug report her own son to the
police? Impossible.'
He shook his head firmly.
'But her son was dead.'
'Doesn't matter. That woman lived for Anders. He was the only thing she had. And she deserves every praise
because she looked after him and helped him right to the bitter end. To report him for anything . . . even after
He gave up on the pipe and put it down on the edge of the ashtray.
'I just can't get that to figure.'
'And you never heard . . . any rumours?'
Hansvold chuckled and folded his hands on his stomach.
'I've heard many more rumours than I would care to share. This is a small town. But if you mean rumours about
Anders then . . . No. Nothing like you're suggesting.'
'Which is?'
That the boy did something far more serious than letting
himself be fooled into killing a cat.'
Then I won't disturb you any longer.'

'You're not disturbing me at all. It's nice to have visitors.'
As he followed her to the door, she noticed a large photograph
of a woman in her fifties on the wall in the hall.
From the woman's glasses, she guessed the picture was
taken in the seventies.
'My wife,' said Hansvold and nodded at the portrait.
'Randi. Fabulous woman. She had her own way with Anders.
Mrs Mohaug always trusted Randi. When Anders was here,
they could sit for hours doing jigsaw puzzles or playing
canasta. Randi always let him win. As you would a child.'
I suppose he was,' said Johanne. in a way.'
'Yes. In a way he was just a little boy.'
He turned to face her again and stroked the ridge of his

nose.
'But he was a man as well. A big, grown man. Don't

forget that.'
"I won't,' said Johanne. 'Thank you for your help.'

On the way back to Oslo she checked the voicemail on her
mobile. There were two messages from Adam, thanking
her for last night and wondering where she was. Johanne
slowed down and slipped in behind a trailer, keeping a
good distance. She played back the messages again. Could
she detect something akin to irritation, or perhaps concern,
in the last message? Johanne tried to decide whether she

liked it or whether it annoyed her.
Her mother had phoned three times. She wouldn't give
up, so Johanne rang the number straight away and stayed in
the inside lane of the motorway.
'Hi, Mum.'
'Hello. How nice that you've called. Your father's been
asking for you, he ... '

'Give him my love and tell him all he needs to do is

ring'
'Ring? You're never at home, dear! We were starting to
get quite worried as we hadn't hear from you, days after
you'd got back from your travels and all that. Did you
manage to visit Marion? How is she now, with the new . . . '
"I didn't visit anyone, Mum. I was working.'
'Yes, but as you were over there, you might as well . . . '
"I actually have rather a lot to do at the moment. When
I'd done what I had to do, I came home.'
'Of course. Good, dear.'
'You left a message on my voicemail. Several, in fact.
Was there anything in particular?'
'Just wanted to know how you are. And to invite you and
Kristiane to supper on Friday. It would be good for you not
to have to think
'Friday . . . Let me see
The trailer was having problems getting up the long,
gentle slopes to Karihaugen. Johanne moved out to the left and accelerated to overtake. She lost her earpiece.
'Wait,' she shouted into the air. 'Don't hang up, Mum!'
As she tried to catch the wire, she lost control of the wheel. The car swerved into the next lane and a Volvo had
to slam on its brakes to avoid a collision. Johanne gripped the wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead.
'Don't hang up,' she barked again.
Without taking her eyes from the road, she managed to fish up the earpiece.
What happened?' screeched her mother at the other end. 'Are you driving while talking on the phone again?'
No, I'm talking on the phone while I'm driving. Nothing happened.'
'You'll kill yourself that way one day. Surely it can't be
necessary to do everything at once!'
'We'll come round on Friday, Mum. And . . .'
Her heart was thumping hard and painfully in her chest.
She realised that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.
'Do you think Kristiane could stay over until Saturday,
mid-afternoonish?'
'Of course! Can't you both stay the night?'
'I've got plans, Mum, but it would be ... '
'Plans? On Friday night?'
'Can Kristiane stay over, yes or no?'
'Of course she can, dear. She's always welcome. You too,
You know that.'
'Yes. See you about six then.'
She quickly ended the call before her mother managed
to say anything else. Johanne had no plans for Friday night.
She had no idea why she'd asked. She and Isak had agreed
that if they needed someone to babysit for Kristiane, they
would always ask each other. First.
She rang her voicemail again. Adam's messages had
been deleted. She must have hit the button through force
of habit. Lina had phoned while she was talking to her
mother.
"Hi, it's Lina. Just wanted to remind you about the book group
on Wednesday. Your turn, you know. And God help you if you  can't make it. Just make something simple. We'll bring the wine, We'll be there about eight. See you, hon. Look forward to it.' 
'Shit!'
Johanne was good at multitasking. She managed to
cope every day because she could do lots of things at once.
She could plan a birthday party for Kristiane while she did
the laundry, at the same time as talking on the phone. She
listened to radio programmes while she read the paper and
managed to digest the content of both. On the way to the
kindergarten, she planned what they would have for upper and what Kristiane would wear the next day. She brushed her teeth and made porridge and read out loud to Kristiane - all at the same time. On the rare occasions when she was going out with other people, she dropped her daughter off at Isak's or with her parents, while she put on her make-up in the car mirror. That's the way women were. Especially her. But not at work.
Johanne had chosen to do research because she liked to study things in depth. But it was more than that. She could never have been a lawyer or a bureaucrat. Doing research allowed her to be thorough. To do one thing at a time. To cast a wide net, take time to find connections. Research allowed her to doubt. Whereas her daily life demanded fast decisions and make-do solutions, compromises and smart short cuts, in her work she had the opportunity to go over things again if she wasn't satisfied. But now everything was a mess.
When she had hesitantly agreed to research the possible miscarriage of justice against Aksel Seier, it was because it was relevant to her project. But at some point or another she
couldn't pinpoint when - the case had started to live its own life. It was no longer anything to do with her life at the institute, with her research. Aksel Seier was a mystery that she shared with an old lady, whom she was drawn to but at the same time wanted to forget.
And then she had let herself get involved with Adam's work.
* can cope with having lots of small balls in the air, she
thought to herself as she turned off from Tasenlokket. But
not big ones. Not at work. Not two demanding projects at
the same time.
And not five ladies for dinner on Wednesday. She just
couldn't cope.

40



It was only eleven o'clock in the evening on Monday 29
May, but Johanne had already been in bed for an hour. She should have been exhausted. But something was making her uneasy, keeping her awake, without her knowing
what it was. She closed her eyes and remembered that it was Memorial Day. Cape Cod would have had its first real
weekend of the summer season. Shutters would have been stored away. Houses aired. The Stars and Stripes would be flying from newly painted flag poles, the red, white and blue national pride flapping in the wind while the sailing boats cruised between Martha's Vineyard and the mainland.
Warren would no doubt have been in Orleans and installed the wife and children for the summer, in the house with a view over Nauset Beach. The children must be grown up by now. Teenagers, at least. Without wanting to, she started calculating. Then she forced herself to think about Aksel Seier. She had a list of names of people who had worked in the Ministry of Justice in the period from 1964 to 1966 in front of her. It was a long list and it told her nothing. Identities. People. People she didn't know and whose names meant nothing to her.

She had constantly been looking over her shoulder in Cape Cod. Of course they wouldn't meet. First of all it was a good fifteen-minute drive from Harwichport to Orleans and ^ond, there was no reason for anyone from Orleans to go to Harwichport. The traffic went in the opposite direction.
leans was big. Bigger, at least. More shops. Restaurants.
1

The fabulous Nauset Beach on the Atlantic Ocean made
Nantucket Sound look like a paddling pool. She knew that
she wouldn't bump into him. But she kept looking over her
shoulder all the same.
Again she ran her finger down the pages. Still they told
her nothing. The director general, Alvhild's boss in 1965
had been dead for nearly thirty years. Line through him.
Unfortunately. Alvhild's closest colleagues had nothing to
say. Alvhild had already asked them long ago if they
remembered anything, knew anything about Aksel Seier's
extraordinary release. Strike them off.
Johanne dropped her felt pen. It fell down into one of
the folds in the duvet. A black stain grew instantly in the
middle of all the white. The telephone rang.
No number, said the display.
Johanne didn't know anyone who had an ex-directory
number.
It must be Adam.
Adam and Warren were about the same age, she

thought.
The phone continued to ring when she lay down and
pulled the duvet over her head.
The next morning she had a dim memory of the telephone
ringing a few times. But she wasn't sure; her sleep
had been heavy and dreamless, right through the night.

41



Given the exceptional circumstances, the principal was
nervous, even though staff numbers had been bolstered
by two young trainee teachers. After all, she was the one who was responsible. In her opinion, a trip to the technical
museum was reckless and unnecessary. But the others had convinced her. It was close enough for them to walk there and the ten children would be accompanied by four adults. The children had been looking forward to it for so long, and surely there were limits to the restrictions a mad
abductor could impose on them. It was broad daylight and not yet midday.
The children were aged between three and five. They walked hand-in-hand, crocodile fashion. The principal walked in front, with her arms out, as if she could somehow protect the children better that way. One of the students was at the back and the kindergarten's only male employee walked beside them on the roadside, singing marching songs so that the children walked in time. Bertha, who was in fact the cook, was on the inside of the pavement.
'Left, right, hup-two-three, everyone keep up with me,' shouted the man. 'One foot, two foot, on the ground, nobody look around. Keep your arse tight, shoulders back
Shhhh,' said the principal.
Arse,' screamed a child. 'He said arse!'
Bertha stumbled over a crack in the asphalt and got left
behind. One of the little girls let go of her friend's hand to

help.
'Arse,' repeated two boys. 'Arse, arse!'
They passed the entrance to the Rema 1000 supermarket.
A delivery van was trying to turn out into Kjelsasveien.
The principal made angry gestures to the driver, who
replied by giving her the finger. The van rolled slowly 
forwards. Bertha screamed, little Eline stood petrified in front
of the bumper. An unleashed dog lolloped over the road
towards them. It wagged its tail and ran circles round three
of the children, who eagerly tried to grab its green collar.
The owner called from the path down by the Aker River.
The dog pricked up its ears and bounded away again. A
Volvo screeched on its brakes. The right fender clipped the
dog, which howled and limped away on three legs. Eline
was crying. The van driver rolled down his window and
hurled abuse. The trainee teachers held their wards by the
collar and tried to stop others from wandering out into the
road by standing with their legs apart on the edge of the
pavement. Bertha picked up Eline. The van driver edged
over the pavement and accelerated up towards Frysjaveien.
The dog whined in the distance. The owner was squatting
beside it trying to calm it down. The driver of the green
Volvo had stopped in the middle of the road, opened the
door and was obviously uncertain whether to get out or not.
There were already four cars behind her, two of them tooting
angrily.
'Jacob,' said the principal. 'Where's Jacob?'

When Marius Larsen, the only male employee at
Frysjakroken kindergarten, later tried to tell the police
what had actually happened outside Rema 1000 °n

Kjelsasveien, just before midday on Wednesday 31 May, he
couldn't remember the exact chain of events. He remembered
all the elements of the incident. There was a dog and
a Volvo. The van driver was foreign. The man who owned
the dog was wearing a red sweater. Eline was howling and
Bertha tripped on something. She was extremely overweight
so it took a while for her to get up. The Volvo was
green. They were singing marching songs. They were on
their way to the technical museum. The dog was a pointer,
grey and brown.
Marius Larsen had all the pieces, but couldn't put them
together. Eventually they asked him to write it all down. A
patient officer gave him some yellow Post-its. One Post-it
for each thing. He put them down in order, shuffled them
round, thought about it, wrote new Post-its with stiff, bandaged
fingers, tried again.
The end of the story was the only thing he was
absolutely clear about.

'Jacob,' said the principal. 'Where's Jacob?'
Marius Larsen let go of two children. He spun round and
saw that Jacob was already a hundred and fifty metres away,
under some man's arm, who was opening the door of a car
parked outside a garage further up the road, going east.
Marius ran.
He ran so fast that one of his shoes flew off.
When he was nearly at the car, no more than ten or
twelve metres away, the engine started. The car swung out
over pavement and into the road. Marius didn't stop. Jacob
wasn't visible. He must be lying on the back seat. Marius
threw himself at the car door. A broken beer bottle cut into
his shoeless foot. The car door burst open with a thud,

Marius lost his balance. The driver hit the brakes. The door
banged on its hinges. Jacob was crying. Marius didn't let go
of the door, he had a firm grip now, holding on to the
window with his fingers. He wouldn't let go. The car
moved off again, jolting and jumping before suddenly
accelerating, and Marius lost his grip. His hand was numb
and the cuts on his foot were bleeding profusely. He lay on
the asphalt in the middle of Kjelsasveien.
Jacob was lying beside him, screaming.
It turned out the boy had broken his leg when he fell.
But otherwise he was in good form. All things considered.

Almost exactly five hours later, at ten to five on
Wednesday afternoon, Adam Stubo, Sigmund Berli and
four detectives from Asker and Baerum Police stood at the
entrance to a block of flats in Rykkin. The stairwell smelt
of wet concrete and cheap TV dinners. No curious neighbours
stuck their heads out to have a look. No children
approached them when they parked the three dark cars
directly outside the building; three identical cars with badly
disguised blue lights in front. All was quiet. It took them
three minutes to pick the lock.
"I take it that all the formalities are in order,' said Adam
Stubo, and entered the flat.
'D'you know what, I don't give a toss about that right
now.'
The officer from Asker and Baerum followed him in.
Adam turned round and blocked his way.
'It's in just these situations that we need to be careful
with things like that,' he said.
'Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine. Now move.'
Adam didn't know what he had expected. Nothing

probably. Best that way. Nothing would surprise him, ever.
He had his own little ritual for occasions like this. A short
meditation with closed eyes before going in, to empty his
brain, to let go of prejudices and assumptions that might or
might not be well founded.
Now he wished he had prepared himself better.

Norway was unofficially in a state of emergency.
The news was broadcast only minutes after the actual
event took place: yet another attempted abduction of a
child. This time the police had a car registration number
and a good description to go on. NRK-TV and TV2 cleared
their programme schedule. What was originally intended to
be lots of short, special broadcasts quickly developed into
one long one on both channels. At impressively short
notice, both production teams managed to call in experts in
most areas that might have any relevance to the case. Only
a couple of them, a well-known child psychologist and a
retired NCIS chief, were shuttled between the studios in
Karl Johan 14 and Marienlyst. Otherwise both channels
showed considerable creativity. At times too much. TV2
had a fifteen-minute interview with a funeral director.
Thin, dressed in dark clothes and with as much emotion as
he could muster, he explained the different reactions of
grief of parents who lose their children under traumatic circumstances,
padding it out with several thinly disguised
anonymous examples. The viewers reacted with such disgust
that the executive producer had to make a personal
apology before the end of the evening.

A witness in Kjelsasveien had noticed that the abductor's
arm was in plaster.
Riled by the lack of interest shown by the police - they
had noted his name and address and said they would contact
him in a day or two - he rang TV2's crimewatch desk.
The description he gave was so precise that one of the
crime reporters linked it to a recent arrest in Asker and
Baerum. The man wasn't quite all there, he seemed to
remember, leafing through his notes. A vigilante group had
broken his arm, but the case had died a death as he refused
to talk to journalists. And in any case, the police were convinced
that he had nothing to do with the abductions.
The child killer who was haunting Norway like a nightmare
and had already taken three lives, perhaps four, had
been arrested earlier! And then been released, without
being charged, only a few hours later. Even worse was the
fact that the man had got away this time too. A quick
thinking driver with a mobile phone had alerted the police
immediately, but the murderer had vanished all the same.
A scandal of enormous proportions.
The Chief of Police in Oslo refused to make any comment.
In a terse press release, the Minister of Justiee
referred to the Chief of Police. The Chief of Police just sat
in his office and said nothing.
TV2 had a scoop that NRK could not hope to repeat.
The witness came on television. Although he didn't get his
fifteen minutes of fame, the interview lasted for at least
two. And what's more, he could expect ten thousand kroner
in his bank account. As soon as possible, assured the crime
reporters, once the camera was turned off.

The worst thing was not the hard-porn magazines that lay
everywhere in piles.
There wasn't much that Adam Stubo hadn't seen
already. The magazines were printed in four colours on

cheap paper. Adam knew that they were largely produced
in Third World countries, where children could be bought
for a penny and a song and the police turned a blind eye for
a fistful of dollars. Nor was it the fact that some of the children
staring at him with blank eyes from the obscene
pictures were no more than two. Adam Stubo had seen a
six-month-old rape victim with his own eyes and had no
illusions left. The fact that the occupant had a PC was more
surprising.
'I misjudged the man,' he muttered, and pulled on some
rubber gloves.
The worst thing was, in fact, the walls.
Everything that had been written about the abductions
had been meticulously cut out and pinned up. From the
first, moderate reports of Emilie's disappearance to a two
page essay by Jan Kjaerstad in Aftenposten's latest morning
edition.
'Everything,' said Hermansen. 'He's kept everything.'
'And more,' said the youngest officer; he nodded over at
the photographs of the children.
They were the same photographs that were pinned up
in Adam's office. He went over to the wall and studied the
copies. They were in plastic covers, but he could see immediately
that they weren't cut out of a newspaper.
'Downloaded from the Internet,' said the youngest officer,
without being asked.
'Can't be a complete idiot then,' said Hermansen without
looking at Adam.
'I've already admitted it,' said Adam gruffly.
The living room was a kind of office. An operations
centre for a one-man army. Adam walked slowly round the
room. There was a sort of system to the madness. Even the
porn magazines were ordered in a perverse chronology. He
noted that the magazines nearest the window contained
pictures of children aged around thirteen to fourteen. The
further into the room you went, the younger the victims
were. He picked up a magazine at random from the sideboard
by the kitchen door. He looked at the picture and felt
his throat tightening before forcing himself to put it back
without ripping it to shreds. One of the officers from Asker
and Baerum was talking quietly on a mobile phone. When
he finished the conversation, he shook his head.
'They haven't even found the car. Let alone the man.
And when you look at what we've got in here
He opened his arms.
' . . . I don't particularly feel like going into the bedroom.'
The
six policemen stood in silence and looked around.
No one said a word. There was a commotion outside the
block of flats. They heard cars stopping. Shouts. Heels
running on tarmac. Still no one said a word. The policeman
who didn't want to check the bedroom pressed his thumb
and index finger to his eyes. He pulled a face that made the
colleague who was standing nearest him pat him uncomfortably
on the shoulder. It stank of old semen. It stank of
masturbation and dirty clothes. It oozed obscenity and
shame and secrecy. Adam looked at Emilie on the wall. She
was still just as serious; the coltsfoot falling on to her forehead.
She looked like she knew everything.
'It's not him,' said Adam.
'What?'
The others turned to look at him. The youngest was
open-mouthed and his eyes were wet.
"I made a mistake about the man's mental capacity,'
Adam admitted, and tried to clear his throat. 'He can obviously
use a PC. He manages to contact the people who
distribute this filth . . . '
He stopped and tried to find a more appropriate word, a
harsher word that conveyed more about the printed material
that lay in piles and stacks all over the place. ' . . . this
filth,' he repeated in vain. 'He knows what's going on. And
we are nearly one hundred per cent certain that he is the
one who attempted the abduction on Kjelsasveien today.
His car. The broken arm. The description fits on all points.
But it's not. . . This is not the man who abducted and killed
the other children.'
'And you've reached that conclusion all by yourself?'
The expression on Sigmund Berli's face showed that he
no longer regarded Adam Stubo as his partner. He was
defecting to the other side. To Baerum Police, who knew
that they had solved the case. If only they could find the
man who lived in this flat, amongst all the paper clippings
and pornography and dirty clothes. They knew- who he was
and he would be caught.
'The man has already let himself get caught once. By
two amateurs! He nearly got caught again today. Our man,
the man we're looking for, the man who killed Kim and
Glenn Hugo and Sarah
Adam's eyes did not leave Emilie's photograph.
'.. . and who perhaps is holding Emilie captive somewhere
... He wouldn't let himself get caught. Not like that.
He doesn't try to abduct children on an outing with lots of
adults to watch them, in broad daylight in his own car. And
a socking great plaster on his arm. No way. You know that,
you know you do. We're just so bent on catching the bastard
that we ... '
'Well, perhaps you can explain to me what this is then?'
interrupted Hermansen.
The policeman was not triumphant. His voice was flat,
nearly resigned. He had pulled a folder out of a drawer. The folder contained a small pile of A4 sheets. Adam Stubo
didn't want to look. He suspected that the contents of the
folder would turn the whole investigation. Over a hundred
detectives who until now had worked on the theory that
nothing was given and that all options should be kept
open - good policemen and women who had tried to look at
all the angles and who knew that good detective work was
the result of being patient and systematic - they would now
all charge in one direction.
Emilie, he thought, this is about Emilie. She is somewhere.
She is alive.
'Aaw, shit,' said the youngest policeman.
Sigmund Berli let out a long, low whistle.
More cars could be heard outside. Shouts and conversation.
Adam went over to the window and carefully
pulled the curtain to one side. The journalists had
arrived. Naturally. They were flocking around the main
entrance. Two of them looked up and Adam let the grey
curtain go. He turned back to face the room. The other
four were standing around Hermansen, who was still
holding a red folder in one hand. In the other he had a
small pile of paper. When he lifted one of the sheets for
Adam to see, the writing was easy to read, even from the
window.
NOW YOU'VE GOT WHAT YOU DESERVED. 'It's written on a machine,' Adam pointed out.
'Give over,' said Sigmund. 'Just give over will you,
Adam. How could this guy know . . . '

'The messages on the children were written by hand.
They were written by hand, people!'
'Should you or I talk to them out there?' asked
Hermansen, putting the paper carefully back into the
folder. 'There's not a lot we can say, but it's probably most
natural if I ... as we're in Asker and Baerum and all that.'
Adam Stubo shrugged his shoulders. He was silent as he
pushed through the group of people that had gathered outside
the low-rise block in Rykkin. He eventually reached
his car and got in. He was just about to give up waiting for
Sigmund Berli, when his colleague got into the car, out of
breath. They barely exchanged a word all the way back to
Oslo.

42



I don't know how you manage it all,' exclaimed Bente,
enthusiastically. 'That was so good!'
Kristiane was asleep. She was normally restless when
Johanne was expecting guests. In the early afternoon, she
would already have long periods where it was impossible to
talk to her. She would roam from room to room, wouldn't
eat. Wouldn't sleep. But tonight she had fallen into bed,
exhausted, with Sulamit under one arm and Jack, dribbling
with delight, under the other. The King of America had
changed Kristiane, Johanne had to admit it. This morning
her daughter had slept until half past seven.
'Recipe,' said Kristin, swallowing. "I must get the
recipe.'
'There isn't one,' said Johanne. 'I just made it up.'
The wine was good. It was half past nine on Wednesday
night. Her head felt light. Her shoulders didn't ache. The
girls round the table were talking over each other. Only
Tone had said she couldn't come; she didn't dare leave the
children alone, given the situation. Especially after today.
'She's always so bloody worried,' said Bente, and spilt
some wine on the tablecloth. 'Those children do have a
father. Ooops! Salt! Mineral water! Tone is so ... so hysterical
about everything. I mean, we can't just hole ourselves
up simply because there's a monster on the loose!'
'They'll catch him now,' said Lina. 'Now they know who
he is. He won't be able to hide for ever. He won't get far.
Did you see that the police have issued a wanted poster
with a photo and everything? Don't pour away all the mineral
water!'
Adam hadn't called. Not since Johanne had ignored the
ringing phone the night before last. She couldn't decide
whether she was upset or not. She didn't know why she
didn't want to speak to him. Then. But not now. He could
phone now. He could come round, in a few hours, when the
girls had finished giggling and tottered out of the flat. Then
Adam could come. They could sit at the kitchen table and
eat leftovers and drink milk. He could borrow the shower
and an old football shirt from the States. Johanne could look at his arms as he leaned over, supporting himself on
the table; the shirt was short-sleeved and he had fair hair on
his arms, as if it was already summer.
'. . . isn't that right?'
Johanne smiled suddenly.
'What?'
'They'll catch him, isn't that right?'
'How should I know?'
But that guy,' Lina insisted. "The one I met here on
Saturday. Doesn't he work for the police? Isn't that what
you said? Yes . . . something to do with the NCIS!'
'Aren't we actually here to talk about a book?' said
Johanne, and went out to the kitchen to get more wine; the
ladies had brought far too much with them, as usual.
'Which you, of course, haven't read,' said Lina.
"I haven't either,' said Bente. "I just haven't had the
time. Sorry.'
'Nor have I,' admitted Kristin. 'If that salt is going to have
any effect you have to rub it in to the material. Like this!'
She leaned over the table and stuck her index finger into
the mix of salt and mineral water.
'Why do we call this a book group . . . '
Lina held the book up accusingly.
' . . . when I'm the only one who reads? Tell me, is that
what happens when you have children? You lose the ability
to read?'
'You lose time,' Bente slurred. 'Time, Lina. That's what

dishapearsh.'
'You know what, that really annoys me,' Lina started.
'You always talk as if the only important thing in ... As if
the minute you have children, you're allowed to ... '
'Can't you tell us a bit about the book instead?' Johanne
suggested swiftly. "I am interested. Honestly. I read all of
Asbjorn Revheim was I was younger. In fact, I'd thought
about buying a copy of. . . what's it called?'
She grabbed the book. Lina snatched it back. 'Revheim. An Account of a Suicide Forewarned,'' read
Halldis. 'And by the way, you didn't ask me. I have in fact

read it.'
'Horrible,' said Bente. 'You haven't got shildren,

Halldis.'
'Appropriate title,' said Lina, still with an offended
undertone. 'You can feel the death wish in nearly everything
he wrote. Yes, a yearning for death.'
'Sounds like a thriller,' said Kristin. 'Should we just take
the tablecloth off?'
Bente had spilt again. Instead of pouring on more salt,
she had attempted to cover the red spot with her serviette.
The glass had not been picked up. A red stain was flourishing
under the paper napkin.
'Forget it,' said Johanne, lifting up the glass. 'Doesn't
matter. When did he die?'
'In 1983. I can actually remember it.'

'Mmm. Me too. It was quite a novel way to take your
own life.'
'To put it mildly.'
'Tell me,' said Bente, subdued.
'Maybe you should have some more mineral water.'
Kristin got some more mineral water from the kitchen.
Bente scratched at the stain she'd made. Lina poured some
more wine. Halldis was looking through Asbjorn Revheim's
biography.
Johanne felt content.
She had barely had the energy to do more than whizz
through the flat with a vacuum cleaner, stuff Kristiane's
things into the large box in her room and clean the bathroom.
It had taken half an hour to make the food. She really
hadn't felt like it. But she'd kept to the agreement. The
girls were having a good time. Even Bente was smiling
happily under her drooping eyelids. Johanne could go into
work late tomorrow morning. She could potter about with
Kristiane for a couple of hours and take it easy. She was glad
to see the girls and didn't protest when Kristin filled her
glass again.
'I've heard that everyone who commits suicide is actually
in a state of acute psychosis,' said Lina.
'What rubbish!' said Halldis.
'No, it's true!'
'That you've heard it, perhaps. But it's not true.'
'What do you know about it?'
'Could well be true in Asbjorn Revheim's case,' said
Johanne. 'On the other hand, the man had tried several
times. Do you think he was psychotic every time?'
'He'sh mad,' mumbled Bente. 'Absholutely barking
mad.'

'That's not the same as psychotic,' Kristin argued. "I
know a couple of people I would describe as barking mad.
But I've never met anyone who's psychotic'
'My bosh is a psychopath,' said Bente, too loud. 'He's
bloody evil. Evil.''
'Here's a bit more mineral water for you,' said Lina,
passing her a big bottle.
'Psychopath and psychotic are not the same thing,
Bente. Have any of you read Sunken City, Rising OceanV
They all nodded. Except Bente.
'It came out just after the trial,' said Johanne. 'Isn't that

right? And also
'Isn't that the one where he describes the suicide?'
Kristin interrupted. 'Even though it was written many,
many years before he actually took his own life . . . Doesn't
bear thinking about, really.'
Her shudder was exaggerated.
'But wha' then?' said Bente. 'Can you not jusht tell me

wha' happened?'
No one said anything. Johanne started to tidy the table.
Everyone had had enough.
"I think maybe we should talk about something a bit
more pleasant,' said Halldis tactfully. 'What are your plans
for the summer?'

It was past one in the morning when her friends finally
stumbled out of the door. Bente had been asleep for two
hours and seemed confused by the notion of going home.
Halldis had promised to get the taxi to drive via Blindern,
and she would make sure that Bente got safely to bed.
Johanne aired the flat thoroughly. The smoking ban had
been lifted for the past hour, but she couldn't quite remember who had made the decision. She put out four saucers with
vinegar. Then she went out on to the terrace.
It was the second hour of the first day of June. A deep
blue early summer light was visible in the west, it wouldn't
get properly dark again now for a couple of months. The air was sharp, but it was still possible to stand outside without
a coat. Johanne leaned against the flower boxes. A pansy
drooped its head.
In the course of three days she had talked about
Asbjorn Revheim twice. To be fair, Asbjorn Revheim was
one of the most important people in Norwegian literature,
in modern Norwegian history, for that matter. In 1971 or
1972, she couldn't remember for sure, he'd been sentenced
for writing a blasphemous, obscene novel, several
years after the parody of a case against Jens Bjorneboe that
should have warned the authorities against interfering with
literature. Revheim didn't just lie down and take it, he hit
back with Sunken City, Rising Ocean a couple of years later.
A more obscene and blasphemous book had never been printed in Norway, before or since. Some said it was
worthy of the Nobel Prize for Literature. But most people
felt that the man deserved another round in the courts.
However, the prosecuting authorities had learnt their
lesson; the Director General of Public Prosecutions admitted
many years later that he had in fact never read the
book.
Revheim was an important author. But he was dead and had been for a long time. Johanne couldn't remember the last time she had thought about the man, let alone talked about him. When the biography was published the autumn
before, it had caused quite a stir, but she hadn't even bought it. Revheim wrote books that meant something to

her when she was younger. He meant nothing to her today.
To her life as it was now.
Twice in three days.
Anders Mohaug's mother believed that Anders was
somehow involved in the murder of little Hedvig in 1956.
Anders Mohaug was retarded. He was easily led and hung
around with Asbjorn Revheim.
That would be too simple, thought Johanne. That is just
too simple.
She was cold, but didn't want to go in. The wind tugged
at her shirt sleeves. She should buy some new clothes. The
other girls looked much younger than she did. Even Bente,
who smoked thirty cigarettes a day and would soon need
treatment for her alcohol consumption that was no longer a
joke, looked better than Johanne. More trendy, at least.
Lina had given up taking her shopping ages ago.
It would be too simple.
And in any case, who would want to protect Asbjorn
Revheim from persecution and punishment?
He was only sixteen in 1956, she thought, and filled her
lungs with night air; she wanted to clear her head before
she went to bed.
But in 1965? When Anders Mohaug died and his mother
went to the police? When Aksel Seier was released without
any comment other than that he should be happy?
Asbjorn Revheim would have been twenty-five by then
and was already an established author. Two books, as far as
she could remember. Already established, after only two
books. Both had caused passionate debate. Revheim was
seen as a threat at the time. He wasn't someone people
would want to protect.
Johanne was still holding the biography. She looked

down at it, stroked the cover. Lina had insisted she should keep it- It was a good picture. Revheim's face was narrow, but masculine. He had an open smile. Almost arrogant. His eyes were small, with astonishingly long lashes.
She went in but left the door to the terrace ajar. A whiff of vinegar teased her nose. She found herself feeling disappointed
that Adam hadn't phoned. When she got into bed, she decided to start reading the book. But before her head even hit the pillow, she was fast asleep.



43



Aksel Seier had never been one for quick decisions. As
a rule, he liked to sleep on them. Preferably for a week
or two. Even small, trivial things such as whether he should
buy a new or a used fridge now that the old one had
broken. He took his time. There were pros and cons with
everything. He had to feel what was right. Be certain. The
decision to leave Norway in 1966 should have been made
the year before. He should have known there was no future
in a country that had sent him to prison and kept him there
for nine years without reason, a country so small that neither
he nor anyone else would be allowed to forget what
had happened. It just wasn't in his nature to rush. Maybe it
was a result of all those years in prison, when time passed so
slowly it was difficult to fill it.
He was sitting on the stone wall outside his house,
between the small garden and the beach. The granite was
red and still warm from the sun, he could feel it through
the back of his trousers. The tide was out. Half-dead horseshoe
crabs lay stranded along the water's edge, some with
their shells facing up, like tanks with tails. Others had been
thrown on their back by the breakers and were dying
slowly in the sun with their claws in the air. The crabs
reminded him of prehistoric monsters in miniature, a 
forgotten link in an evolution that should have made them
extinct long ago.
He felt a bit like that himself.
All his life he had waited to have his name cleared.

Patrick, the only one in the USA who knew anything
about his past, had urged him to contact a lawyer. Or perhaps
even a detective, he said as he polished a gold-plated bridle. Patrick's carousel was the best in New England.
There were plenty of detectives in America. A lot of them
were extremely good, said Patrick. Surely if that woman had come all the way from Europe to tell him that she
believed he was innocent, after so many years, the long trip all the way from Norway, well, then it must be worth finding out more. Patrick knew that lawyers were expensive, but it would be easy enough to find someone who would take payment only if they won the case.
The problem was that Aksel had no case.
At least, not here in the LISA.
He had no case, but still he had always been waiting. In
quiet resignation, he had never given up the hope that
someone would discover the injustice that had been done. This never came to more than a silent prayer at bedtime that tomorrow would bring good news. That someone would believe him. Someone other than Eva and Patrick.
Johanne Vik's visit was important.
For the first time in all the years he'd been away, he considered
going home.
He still thought of Norway as home. His whole life was
in Harwichport. His house, his neighbours, the few people
he could call friends. Everything he owned was here, in a small town on Cape Cod. But Norway had always been home.
If Eva had asked him to stay way back then when he
left, he would perhaps never have boarded the MS wndefjord. If she'd asked him to come back later, during the first years in the States, he would have jumped on the
first boat. He would have got temporary jobs in Norway and
lived frugally. Moved to a new town, where it would be possible
to keep a job for a year or two before the story caught
up with him and he had to move on. If Eva was with him,
he could have gone anywhere. But he only had himself to
offer and Eva was not strong enough. Aksel's shame was too
great. Not for him, but for her. She knew he was innocent.
She never seemed to doubt that. But she couldn't cope
with other people's judgement. Friends and neighbours
nudged and whispered and her mother made everything
worse. Eva bent her head and let herself be cowed. Aksel
would have managed to stand strong with Eva, but Eva was
too weak to cope with a life with him.
Later, when she was free, it was too late for them both.
Now, perhaps, the time was right. His life had taken a
turn in an unexpected direction and there was someone
who needed him at home. Eva hadn't exactly asked him to
come in the letter she sent, out of character and out of the
blue. She was desperate.
Aksel had Johanne Vik's business card. If he went, he
could contact her. Patrick was right, the woman had come
all the way from Norway to talk to him, so she must really
be convinced of his case. His dream of being cleared might
finally come true. The thought frightened him and he got
up stiffly and rubbed his back.
The estate agent had said a million dollars. That was
some time ago. Cape Cod was at its prettiest now. As any
potential buyer was hardly likely to be interested in the
house, cleaning and maintenance were not that important.
Aksel Seier turned over a horseshoe crab with the tip of
his boot. It lay there, like a deserted German helmet from
the First World War. He picked the crab up by the tail and

threw it into the water. Even though he never decided to
do something without thinking it through in detail first, he
realised that he was well on the way to making an important
decision. He wondered if it would be possible to take the cat with him.

44



Well, you were wrong as far as the half-sibling theory
goes,' said Sigmund Berli.
'Good,' said Adam Stubo. 'Did you manage to get the
blood tests without too much trouble?'
'Don't ask. I've told more lies in the last few days than
I have in my whole life. Don't ask. At the moment we only
have the results of old-fashioned paternity tests. The DNA
results will take longer. But everything indicates that all
the other children involved are really their fathers' children.'
'Good,'
repeated Adam. 'I'm happy to hear that.'
Sigmund Berli was taken aback.
'Jesus,' he said and put down the papers in front of his
boss. 'You don't seem particularly surprised. Why were you
so keen to get it checked if you didn't really believe it was

the case?'
'It's a long time since I've been surprised by anything.
And you know just as well as I do that we have to investigate
every possible avenue. Whether we believe or not.
Right now it seems that everyone has been caught in a collective
short-circuit, where everything is focused on ...'
'Adam! Stop!'
The hunt for Olaf 'Laffen' Sornes from Rykkin had
become a national concern. It was everywhere, in the
media, conversations around dinner tables, at work. Adam
could understand that most lay people had decided that
Laffen was the child killer. But the fact that Adam's 
colleagues seemed to have got caught up in the same frenzy, or at least in part, alarmed him. Laffen was clearly a
pathetic copycat. His criminal record told a sad story of perverted
sexuality that only now had resulted in an actual
attempt to abduct a child. There were countless sad stories
about similar cases in real life and in literature. When a
crime receives enough attention, there will be others who
taste blood.
'Surely you can see that,' said Adam, and shook his head.
?Nothing makes sense. For example, take the courier delivery of Sarah. Would Laffen have managed to pull off
anything like that? Would a man who has an IQ of eighty-one manage to think out something like that? Not to mention pull it off?'
He thumped his fist on Laffen Sornes's file from the
social services and Baerum hospital, where he had undergone
tests for possible epilepsy.
'I've met the guy, Sigmund. He's a pathetic bastard who
hasn't had the sense to do anything other than masturbate since he reached puberty. Cars and sex. That is Laffen
Sornes's life. Sad, but true.'
Sigmund Berli sucked in through his teeth.
'We haven't closed all other options either. Just let it lie. All avenues are still being investigated. But you must
agree that it's important to stop this guy. After all, he tried
to...'
Adam raised his hand and nodded vigorously.
'By all means,' he interrupted. 'Of course the man must
he stopped.'
And,' continued Sigmund, 'how do you explain the fact
that he knew about the notes? About the message saying,
Now you've got what you deserved"? We've tested the paper
II

and you're right, it's not the same type of paper as the
others. But strictly speaking, that doesn't mean anything.
The other messages were on different types of paper, as
you know. And yes
He raised his voice to stop Adam from interrupting.
' . . . Laffen's messages were written on a computer and
the others were written by hand. But how did he know?
How on earth would he know about that sinister detail if he
had nothing to do with the case?'
It was the afternoon of Thursday 1 June. The caretaker
had obviously turned off the central heating for the
summer. It was pouring with rain outside. The room was
chilly, almost cold. Adam took his time pulling a cigar out of
the metal tube. Then he slowly took out a pair of cigar cutters
from his breast pocket.
"I have no idea,' he said. 'But as time passes, more and
more people know about it. The police. Some doctors. The
parents. Even though we've asked everyone not to mention
it, it would be unnatural if they didn't tell their closest
friends and family about the messages. All in all, about a
hundred people must know about the messages by now.'
Among them Johanne, he thought. He lit the cigar.
"I have no idea,' he repeated, and blew a cloud of smoke
towards the ceiling.
'Could he ... '
Sigmund sucked in through his teeth again. Adam
offered him a box of toothpicks.
'Could there be two people involved?' asked Sigmund
Berli. 'Could Laffen be some kind of... henchman for someone
else, someone who's smarter than him? No, thanks."
He waved away the toothpicks.
'Of course, it's not impossible,' Adam admitted. 'But I

don't think so. I get the feeling that the real criminal, the
real killer that we need to catch, is someone who operates
alone. Alone against the world, if you like. But the combination
would be nothing new. Smart man with stupid
helper, I mean. Well-known concept.'
'It's actually incredible that Laffen still hasn't been caught.
His car was found in the parking place at Skar, at the end of
Maridalen. And no cars have been reported stolen from the
area, so unless he had a getaway car waiting, well
'He's hiding in the woods.'
'But Nordmarka at this time of year. . . it's crawling with
people!'
'He might hide during the day and move around at
night. He would certainly be able to hide better in the
woods than in a residential area. And he's suitably dressed.
If he hasn't changed since I last saw him
He tipped some ash carefully into his hand.
'. . . then he could carry out guerrilla warfare up there.
How many sightings have we had now?'
Sigmund chuckled.
'Over three hundred. From Trondheim to Bergen,
Sykkylven and Voss. Over fifty sightings in Oslo alone.
This morning, four people with broken arms were being
held at Gronland police station. Plus a man with his left leg
in plaster. All of them had been taken in by conscientious
citizens.'
Adam looked quickly at his watch.
'Thought so. I've got an appointment. Was there anything
else?'
Sigmund pulled a computer printout from his back
pocket. It curved like a buttock; he smiled apologetically
before smoothing it out.

'This is just a copy. With my notes on it. I've asked for a
clean copy for you. We've found some links between the
families at last. We've looked at everything, absolutely
everything. This is the result.'

Name and
profession
Contact
How
Where and when
Last contact
Fridtjof Salvesen,
Baerum Doctor Lena Baardsen
Gynaecologist
Oslo 1993-94
1994

Turid S. Oksay
Gynaecologist
Baerum 1995
22 March this year
Helge Melvaer,
RenaPhotographer
Tannes Selbu
Family pictures
Sandefjord 1997
1997

Lena Baardsen
Friend
Sandefiord 1995
Summer 1999
Karsten Asli,
address unknown
- Youth worker
May Berit
Benonisen
Friend
Oslo 1994-1995
Spring 1995

Lena Baardsen
Boyfriend
Oslo 1991
23 July 1991
Cato Sylling,
LillestramPlumber Lasse Oksoy
Former colleague
Oslo 1993-1995
Uncertain

Tannes Selbu
Prof, contact re:
translation of
novel
Telephone contact
and correspondence
autumn 1999
Around November
1999
SoniaVaeray
Johnsen, Elverum
-Nurse
Grete Harborg
(according to
widowed husband
Tonnes Selbu)
Good friend
Several places
1975-1999
1999 (three days
before G, Harborg
died)

Turid S. Oksay
Public health
nurse in
connection with
birth of twins
1998
Uncertain
Frode Benonisen
Former girlfriend
of good friend
Tromsol992
Uncertain

'About time too,' said Adam. 'There had to be some connection
between these people. But. . . '
He studied the printout again for several minutes.
'We don't need to worry about Sonia Vaeroy,' he said
eventually. 'Don't think the plumber is of much interest
either. Why does it say "address unknown" for Karsten
Ash? Isn't he in the census rolls?'
'No, that must be the most common offence we
Norwegians are guilty of- not notifying the authorities of
our change of address. Legally, it should be done within
eight days. But it's not a major problem. We just haven't got
round to investigating it in more detail.'
Adam folded the piece of paper and put it in his jacket
pocket.

'Please do. I'll keep this printout till I get my own Is
that OK?'

Sigmund shrugged.
'I want Asli's address,' said Adam. 'And I want to know
more about the photographer. And the gynaecologist. Oh,
and I want. . . '
He sucked on the cigar and got up from the chair. As he
closed and locked the door behind them, he patted his colleague
lightly on the shoulder.
'I want to know as much as possible about those three '
he said. 'The youth worker, the photographer and the
gynaecologist. Age, family background, criminal records
Everything. Oh, and ... '
Sigmund Berli stopped with his hand on the door to his
onice.

'Thanks,' said Adam. 'Thank you. Good work.'







45


You're good with her,' said Johanne quietly. 'She likes
you. She doesn't normally care about other people. I
mean, other than those she knows already.'
'She really is a strange child,' said Adam, and spread the
duvet over Kristiane, Sulamit and the King of America.
Johanne tensed. He added:
'A strange and wonderful child. She's incredibly bright!'
'That's not usually the first thing people say about her.
But you're right. In her own way, she is bright and quick.
It's just not always easy to see.'
Adam had her shirt on. New England Patriots, blue, with
a big 82 on the front and back and VIK in white letters at
the top of the back. He had come straight from work. He
hadn't looked at her when he asked if he could use the
shower. Instead of answering, she went and got him a
towel. And the football shirt, which was far too big for her.
He held it up and laughed.
'Warren says I could have been a good player,' he said.
'Warren says a lot,' said Johanne, putting plates on the
table. 'Food will be ready in fifteen minutes. So you'd
better get a move on.'

The document was grubby and full of scribbles she
couldn't understand. But it wasn't difficult to read the
contents of the table. Adam sat down on the sofa beside
her and leaned over to look at the piece of paper that was
on her knee, the knee closest to him that brushed his

thigh every now and then. They were each holding a
steaming mug.
'Can you see anything of interest?' he asked.
'Not much. And I agree with you that the nurse doesn't
seem important.'
'Because she's a woman?'
'Maybe. Hmm. And the plumber too. Apart from
A cold thought made her shudder. The plumber lived in
Lillestrom.
Pull yourself together, she thought to herself. It's a pure
coincidence. Lots of people live in Lillestrom. It's just outside
Oslo. The plumber has nothing to do with the Aksel
Seier case. Get a grip!
'What's the matter?' he asked.
'Nothing,' she mumbled. 'I'm just researching something
else, an old case from . . . Forget it. It's really got
nothing to do with this. I think you can forget the
plumber.'
'I think so too,' he nodded. 'We agree. But why?'
'Not quite sure.'
She ran her finger over the page again. She stopped at
the column headed 'Contact'.
'Maybe because it's the fathers he's been in contact
with. He is the only one of these people who has only been
in touch with the fathers. Tonnes Selbu, Emilie's father.
Lasse Oksy, Kim's father. For one reason or another, I
think it's got something to do with the mothers. Or ... I
don't know . . . Look. He helped Tonnes Selbu with the
translation of a novel, but they never actually met. Pretty
loose connection.'
'Strange to talk to a plumber about a novel,' Adam said
into his mug.
'Maybe it was about a central-heating engineer,' she said
drily. 'Who knows? But look here! 23 July 1991!'
'What about it? Where?'
'Lena Baardsen said that she had a relationship with
Karsten Asli in 1991. That relationship must have made a
deep impression on her. She remembers the date she last
saw him, even though it was nearly ten years ago. 23 July
1991! Do you remember things like that?'
He was sitting too close to her. She could feel his breath
on her face, coffee breath with warm milk. She straightened
her back.
'I've actually never been together with anyone other
than my wife,' he said. 'We started dating in secondary
school. So ... '
He smiled and she couldn't bear to sit there any longer.
' . . . I have no idea about that sort of thing,' he continued
as he followed her with his eyes when she disappeared
into the kitchen. 'But surely it's more typical of women to
remember details like that. I would think.'
When she came back without actually having got anything,
she sat down in the chair on the other side of the
glass table. His expression was unreadable.
She couldn't understand him. On the one hand he
seemed to be showing a nearly intrusive interest. Surely it
couldn't be purely professional. Not the way he had carried
on, first having her nearly hauled in to his office, then seeking
her out in the USA and then picking her up at ICA, of
all places. He was interested. But because he never did
anything to follow up, never did anything other than come
looking for her, to talk, he made her feel. . .
. .. stupid, she thought. I don't even understand myself. I
invite you to dinner. You walk around in my flat in my shirt
with my name on it, you put the duvet over my child. You
spend time with my child, Adam. Why is nothing happening?
'I think it's odd,' she said lightly. 'Remembering a date
like that.'
The piece of paper lay between them.
'I have always been deeply sceptical of photographers,'
smiled Adam. 'They distort reality and call it real.'
'And I of gynaecologists,' she said, not looking at him.
'They often lack the most elementary form of human
empathy. The men are worst.'
'That sounds rather judgemental to be coming from you.
What's your view on youth workers?'
They both laughed a little. It was good that she'd
moved. He didn't make a fuss about it. Just settled down,
as if it was in fact more comfortable to have the whole sofa
to himself.
'Have you got any further with the cause of death for
Kim and Sarah?'
'No.'
He drank the rest of what was in his mug.
'If we assume that there actually is a cause of death,' said
Johanne, 'then
'Of course there's a cause of death! We're talking about
two healthy, strong children!'
He looked older when he wrinkled his brow. Much
older. Than her.
'Could they have been . . . frightened to death or something
like that?'
'No, not as far as I know. Do you really think that's possible?
To frighten someone with a healthy heart to death?'
'No idea. But if our man has found a way to kill people
without leaving a trace . . . '

She felt a shiver down her neck again. She lifted her hair
and ran her fingers through her fringe.
' .. . that means that he has ultimate control. And I guess
that fits in with his profile.'
'What profile?'
'Wait.'
She stared at the piece of paper. It was lying so the
text was facing Adam; the writing was so small that she
couldn't read it upside down. She held a finger in the air,
as if she needed complete silence to finish her train of

thought.
'This man wants revenge,' she said tensely. 'He has a
serious, antisocial personality disorder or he's a psychopath.
He can do what he's doing now because he feels that it is
right. Or justified. He believes he has a claim on something
or other. Something he never got. Or that was taken away
from him. Something that is his. He's taking back . . . what

is his!'
Her finger was like an exclamation mark between them.
Adam's face was immobile.
'Could he be ... Is the murderer actually the father of
these children?'
Her voice was trembling, she heard it herself and
coughed. Adam paled.
'No,' he said eventually. 'He's not.'
Johanne's finger gradually sank.
'You've checked,' she said in a disappointed voice. 'If
the children are their fathers' children?'
'Yes.'
'It would have been nice to know,' she said. 'Especially
as you think I can help you.'
'I just hadn't got that far yet. We know that Emilie's

biological father is not Tonnes Selbu. But we don't think
he knows that himself. The other children
He sank slowly back into the sofa and opened his hands.
'Everything indicates that they are their fathers' children.'
Johanne's
eyes didn't leave the piece of paper. The King
of America was whimpering on the other side of Kristiane's
closed door. Johanne didn't get up. The dog's whining rose
in volume.
'Should I--' Adam started.
'I had a bit of a girls' night here yesterday,' she interrupted.
'We got a bit tipsy, all of us.'
Jack started to howl.
'I'll let him out,' said Adam. 'He probably wants a pee.'
'He's not house-trained yet,' she said listlessly. 'He probably
just wants company. Kristiane will wake up now and
then that's that.'
But she still didn't get up. Adam let the dog out of the
girl's room. It peed on the floor. Adam went and got a
bucket and cloth. The whole sitting room smelt of Ajax
when he went back to the bathroom and returned with the
dog under his arm.
'Party,' he said, with forced humour. 'On a Wednesday?'
'It's a kind of book group, really. Apart from the fact that
we rarely have time to read. The same book, at least. We've been doing it since secondary school. Once a month. And, like I said, we got a bit... '
She blushed. Not because she'd had too much to drink the night before. That was none of Adam's business. But
because he made himself so at home in her flat and was sitting
with her dog on his lap, in her sofa. His hands were still wet with her water and her cleaning products.

'Later on in the evening, one of us just had to know how
many the others had . . . '
Adam had never been with anyone other than his wife.
Johanne didn't think she'd ever met a man who could say
that.
Are you telling the truth? she thought. Or is this just
another way to make an impression? To make you different?
'.
. . slept with,' she completed the sentence.
'Now I'm not quite . . .'
' . . . with me?'
She immediately regretted saying it.
'There is a point,' she quickly added. 'There was lots of
joking around and laughing, of course. Late evenings with
good girlfriends often end up like that. A bit like when boys
have to list their five favourite rock albums of all time. The
ten best strikers. Things like that.'
Adam had a big lap. His thighs were broad and there was
room for the whole of the King of America between them.
The dog lay with its mouth open and eyes half closed and
looked content.
'I'm sure we all lied a bit. The point is . . .'
'Yes, I'm intrigued, I must say.'
The words were sarcastic. The voice was friendly. She
didn't know which to believe.
'We leave a few out,' she said. 'Everyone has someone
they would rather not remember or include.'
He lifted his gaze from the dog and looked straight at

her.
'Yes, well, not everyone,' she said, and pointed at the
table as if she wanted to explain who she meant to include.
'But we did. Those of us who were here yesterday. We

left out some names. Over the years we've all been
involved with people who we either discovered very
quickly were not our type or who it's just embarrassing to
think that you've actually . . . slept with. So as time passes,
we forget them. Consciously or unconsciously. Even though
their names generally still linger in our minds, we choose
not to mention them. Not even to close friends.'
He carefully put the puppy down on the floor. It whined
and wanted to be let up again immediately. Adam pushed it
firmly away and pulled the document closer. The dog
padded over to a corner and lay down with a thump.
'There's only one "boyfriend" here,' he said. 'Karsten
Asli. And he's also down as friend, or former friend really, of
another. Do you think this Asli may have gone out with
more of the mothers?'
'Not necessarily. It might be someone completely different.
Someone that none of them have mentioned. Either
because they've repressed the whole episode, or because
they don't want to admit
'But these mothers know how serious it is,' he interrupted.
'They know how important it is that they tell the
truth, that the lists we've asked them for are correct.'
'Yes,' she nodded. 'They're not lying. They're repressing.
Would you like a drink? A whisky? A gin and tonic?'
When he looked at his watch, it seemed to be automatic,
as if he couldn't reply to the offer of a drink without checking
the time first. Maybe Johanne was right; it was possible
that Adam didn't drink at all.
'I'm driving,' he said and hesitated. 'So, no thanks. Even
though it does sound good.'
'You can leave the car here if you like,' she said nonchalantly,
adding: 'No pressure. I can't know if these ladies
have all had the same boyfriend. It's just an idea. There's
something so vengeful about this man's crimes. So bitter. So
evil! I find it easier to imagine that it's driven by rejection
from a woman, several women. or perhaps even «//women,
rather than simply being pissed off with . . . the tax authorities,
for example.'
'Don't say that,' said Adam. 'In the US . . . '
'In the US there are examples of people who have killed simply because their Big Mac wasn't hot enough,' said
Johanne. 'I think we'd be wise to stick to our own territory'
'W'hat actually happened between you and Warren?'
Johanne was surprised that she didn't react more violently. Ever since Adam had said that he knew Warren, she had
been waiting for that question. And as he hadn't asked, she
just assumed that he wasn't interested. She was both pleased
and disappointed. She didn't want to talk about Warren. But
the fact that Adam had not asked earlier might indicate an
indifference that she was not entirely happy about.
'I don't want to talk about Warren,' she said calmly.
'OK. If I've overstepped the mark in any way, I apologise.
That wasn't my intention.'
'You haven't upset me,' she said, and forced a smile.
'I think I will have a drink, after all.'
'How will you get home?'
'Taxi. Gin and tonic please, if you've got one.'
'I said I did.'
The ice cubes clinked loudly as she carried through two
gin and tonics from the kitchen.
'Sorry, don't have any lemon,' she said. 'Warren let me
down badly. Professionally and emotionally. As I was so
young, I put most emphasis on the latter. But now, I'm
more angry about the former.'

There was too much gin in the drink. She pulled a face and added:

'Not that I think about it much any more. It was a long, long time ago. And as I said, I would rather not talk about
it.'
'Cheers! Another time, perhaps.'
He raised his glass and then took a sip.
'No,' she said. 'I don't want to talk about it. Not now, not
ever. I'm finished with Warren.'
The silence that followed was not awkward for some reason. Some half-grown children were making a noise in the garden, trying to retrieve a miskicked football. It was a summer sound that made them smile, but not to each other.
It was around half past nine. Johanne felt the gin and tonic go straight to her head. A light, comfortable fuzziness after only one sip. She put the drink down in front of her. Then she said:
'If we play with the idea that we are looking for an old boyfriend, or someone who perhaps wanted to be the boyfriend of one of these mothers, the message fits in rather well. Now you've got what you deserved. There's no way to hit a woman harder than taking her child.'
'No way to hit a man harder, either.'
Johanne looked at him absent-mindedly. Then it dawned on her.
'Oh . . . sorry. Sorry, Adam, I wasn't thinking . . . '
'That's OK. People have a tendency to forget. Probably because the accident was so . . . bizarre. I've got a colleague who lost a son in a car accident two years ago. Everyone talked to him about it. Somehow a car accident is something that everyone can relate to. Falling down from a ladder and Killing yourself and your mother in the fall is more
He smiled tightly and sipped his drink.
'John Irving style. So no one says anything. But it's probably
just as well. You were in the middle of a train of
thought.'
She didn't want to continue. But something in his eyes
made her carry on:
'Let's say it's someone who seems very normal. Good
looking, maybe. Attractive. He might even be a bit of a charmer and finds it easy to make contact with women. As
he's very manipulative, he also keeps hold of them for a
while. But not long. There's something mean about him,
something immature and very self-centred, combined with
an easily triggered paranoia that makes women reject him.
Again and again. He doesn't think it's his fault. He has done
nothing wrong. It's the women who betray him. They're sly
and calculating. They're not to be trusted. Then one day
something happens.'
'Like what?'
He was about to empty his glass. Johanne didn't know if
she should offer him a refill. Instead she continued:
'I don't know. Yet another rejection? Maybe. But presumably
something more serious. Something that makes
him flip. The man that was seen in Tromso, have you got
any more on him?'
'No. No one has come forward. Which might mean
that that was our man. It might also mean that it was
someone completely different. Someone who has nothing
to do with the case, but who had some business or other
up there that he would rather not disclose to the police. It
could also have been someone who is completely innocent
who was visiting a lover. So we're not much further
forward.'

'Emilie messes it all up,' she said. 'Would you like
another?'
He picked up his glass and looked at it for a long time.
The ice cubes had melted to water. Suddenly he drank it
and said:
'No, thank you. Yes. Emilie is a mystery. Where is she?
As her mother's been dead for nearly a year now, it can
hardly be targeted at her. So your theory falls to pieces.'
'Yes
She paused.
'But she's not been delivered back, like the other children.
At least, not to the father. But have you
Their eyes met and locked.
'The churchyard,' he nearly whispered. 'She might have
been delivered to her mother.'
'Yes. No!'
Johanne pulled her sleeves down over her hands. She
was cold and nearly shouted:
'It's nearly four weeks since she disappeared! Someone
would have found her. Lots of people go to the graveyard in
Asker in spring.'
'I don't even know where Grete Harborg is buried,' he
said, breathless. 'Shit. Why didn't we think of that?'
He got up suddenly and gave a questioning nod towards
Johanne's study.
'Just use the phone,' she said. 'But isn't it a bit late to
investigate that now?'
'Far too late,' he replied and closed the door behind him.

They had moved out on to the terrace. Adam was the one
who wanted to. It was past midnight. The neighbours had called their children in and there was a faint smell of
barbecue wafting over from the east. The wind direction
was in their favour, the sound of the cars on the ring road
was distant and subdued. He refused the offer of a sleeping
bag when Johanne went to get a duvet for herself, but
he had eventually accepted a blanket over his shoulders.
She could see that he was cold. He was opening and closing
his legs rhythmically and breathing into his hands to
keep them warm.
'What a fascinating story,' he said as he checked for the
fourth time whether his mobile was switched on. 'I asked
them to call me on this. So we don't
He tipped his head back towards the flat. Kristiane was
sound asleep.
Johanne had told him about Aksel Seier. In fact, it surprised
her that she hadn't told him earlier. In just under
one week, she and Adam had spent a whole day, a long
evening and a whole night together. She had thought
about sharing the story with him on several occasions. But
something had stopped her, until now. Perhaps it was her
eternal reluctance to mix up her cards when it came to
work. She wasn't quite sure what to call Adam any more.
He was still wearing her shirt. He had listened intently.
His short, occasional questions had been relevant. Shown
insight. She should have told him earlier. For some reason
she had neglected to tell him about Asbjorn Revheim and
Anders Mohaug. She hadn't mentioned the trip to
Lillestrom at all. It was as if she wanted to get things clear
in her head first.
'Do you think,' she said thoughtfully,' . . . that the prosecuting
authorities in Norway might in some cases be . . It was almost as if she didn't dare to use the word.
'Corrupt,' he helped her. 'No, if you mean that someone
from the authorities would accept money to manipulate the jesult of a case, I would say that is nigh on impossible.'
'That's reassuring,' she said drily.
A thermos of tea and honey was sitting on a small teak table between them. There was an annoying whining from the top and she tried to screw it on tighter.
'But there are many forms of human inadequacy,' he added, hugging his mug for warmth. 'Corruption is more or less unthinkable in this country. For many reasons. To start with, we have no tradition for it. That might sound strange, but corruption requires a kind of national tradition! In
many African countries, for example
'Careful!'
They laughed.
'We've seen quite a few examples of corruption at a very high level in Europe in recent years,' said Johanne.
'Belgium. France. So it's not as alien as one might think. You don't need to go all the way to Africa.'
'That's true,' Adam admitted. 'But we're a very small
country. And very transparent. It's not corruption that's the problem.'
'What's the problem, then?'
'Incompetence and prestige.'
'Wow!'
She gave up on the thermos. It continued to complain; a thin, wailing noise. Adam opened the top completely and poured the remains of the tea into his cup. Then he carefully
put the top down beside the thermos.
'What are you getting at?'
'I... Is it at all possible that Aksel Seier, in his time, was sentenced even though someone in the system actually ***&> he was innocent?'
'He was judged by a jury,' said Adam. 'A jury is comprised
of ten people. I find it very hard to believe that ten
people could do something so wrong without it ever being
discovered. After all these years
'Yes. But the evidence was produced by the prosecution.'
'True
enough. Do you mean that
'I don't mean anything really. I'm just asking you if you
think it's possible that the police and the public prosecutor
in 1956 would have sentenced Aksel Seier for something
that they knew he didn't do?'
'Do you know who was acting for the prosecution?'
'Astor Kongsbakken.'
Adam took the cup from his mouth and laughed.
'According to the newspaper reports, he was, to put it
mildly, very engaged in the case,' continued Johanne.
'I can imagine! I'm too young . . . '
He was smiling broadly now and looking straight at her.
She studied a tea stain on her duvet and pulled it tighter.
' ... to have experienced him in court,' he continued.
'But he was a legend. The prosecution's answer to Portia,
you might say. Passionate and extremely competent.
Unlike some of the big defence lawyers, Kongsbakken had
the wisdom to stop in time. I can't remember what happened
to him.'
'He must have been dead for ages,' she said quietly.
'Yes, either dead or old as the hills. But I think I can reassure
you of one thing: Public Prosecutor Kongsbakken
would never knowingly have been instrumental in sentencing
anyone who was innocent.'
'But in 1965 . . . When Aksel Seier was released for no
reason and nothing . . .'
His mobile phone started to play a digitalised version of
'piir Elise'. Adam answered. The conversation lasted less than a minute and he said little else other than yes and no and thank you.
'Nothing,' he said out loud and ended the call. 'Grete
Harborg is buried in Ostre Gravlund here in Oslo, beside her grandparents. Three patrols from Oslo City Police have
fine-combed the area around the grave. Nothing. No suspicious
packages, no messages. They'll carry on looking
tomorrow when it gets light, but they're fairly convinced
there's nothing there.'
'Thank God for that,' whispered Johanne; she felt physically
relieved. 'Thank goodness. But. . . '
He looked at her. In the night light his eyes looked dark,
nearly black. He should have shaved. The blanket had
slipped from his shoulders. When he turned to pick it up, she saw her name across his broad back. She swallowed and didn't want to look at the time.
'... that means we still can't be sure whether Emilie was taken by the same person as the others,' she said. 'It
might be someone completely different.'
'Yep,' he nodded. 'But I don't think it is. And you don't think it is. And I hope to God that it isn't.'
The intensity of his exclamation surprised her.
'Why . . . Why d'you . . . ?'
'Emilie is alive. She may still be alive. If it's our man who abducted her, then he has a reason for keeping her alive. So I hope it's him. We just have to ... '
' .. find him.'
'I have to go,' said Adam.
I guess you do,' said Johanne. 'I'll phone for a taxi.'
Adam was solidly built and it was three hours since he
had had one gin and tonic. He could probably have driven
home and they both knew that.	^
"I'll come and get the car tomorrow, he said. And I'll 
take your shirt with me. If it's all right that I don't wash it;
By the front door, he gave Jack an extra pat.
Then he lifted his hand to his forehead, smiled and went
out to the waiting taxi.

46



A man crouched by a cabin wall. He was well dressed for
the time of year. But he was still cold. His teeth were
chattering and he tried to pull his jacket tighter around him.
He had no idea where he was. The trees stood thick around the opening in front of the small, decrepit building. He
could easily break in. The cabin might not even be locked.
A thin strip of pink light was expanding on the horizon to the east. He had to find somewhere to hide. Cabins were not a particularly good idea. People could turn up at any time. But this one looked derelict. It smelt of old tar and outside toilets.
The man tried to get up. It was as if his legs wouldn't carry him. He staggered and realised that he had to have something to eat soon.
'Eat,' he mumbled. 'Eat.'
The door was a joke. Only some loosely nailed boards that were swinging on the hinges. He stumbled in.
It was dark, even darker than outside. Someone had nailed shutters to the windows. The man groped his way along the wall. His hand came to a cupboard. Luckily he had a lighter. He had finished his cigarettes ages ago. He felt a painful gnawing under his breastbone. Cigarettes and food. He needed cigarettes and food, but had no idea how he was going to get them. He managed to open the cupboard by the light of his lighter flame. It was empty. The next one was empty too. Only cobwebs and an old portable radio.
The cabin had one large room. There was a kind of pot on the table. A big ashtray. There were four stubs in the
ashtray. With shaking fingers he picked one of them up. The tobacco was so dry that it fell out of the paper. He carefully
stuffed the strands of tobacco back in. It took a while
He had to make sure the top was open. Then he lit the cigarette
and tilted back his head. After smoking four stubs he
was no longer hungry. Instead he felt slightly sick. It was
better. He crawled under the table and fell asleep.

47



It seemed that the girl wanted to die. He couldn't see
why. She got enough food. Enough water. Enough air.
He gave her everything she needed to stay alive. But she just lay there. She'd stopped answering when he spoke to her. That irritated him. It was rude. As he couldn't bear the smell of her, he had found a pair of his old underpants and sewn up the fly. He couldn't really buy a pair of girl's knickers
without attracting attention. They knew him in the local shops. He could of course go into town, but it was better to be on the safe side. He had been on the safe side all along. They would never find him and he didn't want to ruin everything because someone found it odd that a childless
man was buying girl's knickers. People were hysterical. They talked about nothing else. At the Co-op, with Bobben at the petrol station. At work he could put on ear
protectors and shut the others out, but in the lunch break he was forced to listen to their whining. A couple of times he'd just eaten his packed lunch in by the saw. Then the boss came and asked him what was wrong. Lunch was sacred to them all. And should be eaten together in the hut. Simple as that, and he had smiled and followed him in.
When he ordered Emilie out of bed to wash herself the other day, she was stiff as a robot. But she did it. Staggered over to the sink. Took off her clothes until she stood there
naked. Washed herself with the cloth he'd brought in with
him. Put on the clean pants, faded green ones with a cheeky elephant on the front. He had laughed. The pants
wouldn't stay on and she looked completely ridiculous when she turned to him: thin and pale with her right hand
closed round a handful of material by the trunk.
Then he had washed her clothes. Put them in the wash.
ing machine with a softener in the rinse. He hadn't
bothered to iron them all, but she could still have been
more grateful. She just carried on lying there in the underpants.
Her clothes lay folded beside the bed.
'Hey,' he said brusquely, from the doorway. 'Are you
alive?'
It was quiet.
The little bitch didn't want to answer him.
She reminded him of a girl he'd gone to primary school
with. They were going to put on a play. His mother was
going to come. She had made the costume. He was going to
be the grey goose and only had a couple of lines. His costume
wasn't too great. The wings were made of cardboard
and one of them had a bend in it. The others laughed. The
beautiful girl was a swan. The feathers frothed around her,
white tissue-paper feathers. She tripped on something and
fell off the edge of the stage.
His mother didn't turn up. He never knew why. When he
got home, she was sitting in the kitchen reading. She didn't
even look up when he said goodnight. His grandmother gave
him a slice of bread and a glass of water. The next day she
forced him to visit the swan in hospital and apologise.
'Hello,' he said again. 'Will you answer!'
There was a slight movement under the duvet, but not
a sound was made.
'Careful,' he said through gritted teeth, and slammed
the door again.
It was pitch black.
Emilie knew that she wasn't blind. The man had turned
off the light. Daddy would have given up looking by now.
Maybe they'd had a funeral.
Most likely she was dead and buried.
'Mummy,' she said mutely.



48



Kristiane woke up on Friday morning with a temperature.
Or rather, she didn't wake up. When Johanne was
woken by Jack at ten past eight, the child was still sleeping,
with an open mouth and sour breath. Her cheeks were red
and her forehead warm.
'Sore,' she mumbled when Johanne woke her. 'Thirsty
tummy.'
It actually suited Johanne very well to be at home. She
threw on an old tracksuit and phoned work to let them
know. Then she phoned her mother.
'Kristiane's not well, Mum. We can't come over this

evening.'
'What a shame! That really is a shame. I managed to get
hold of some super gravlax, your father knows . . . Would
you like me to come and look after her?'
'No, that's not necessary. Actually
Johanne needed a day at home. She could clean the flat
before the weekend. She could repair the chair in the
kitchen, the one that had given way under the weight of
Adam. Kristiane was a remarkable child. She slept herself
back to health. Literally. The last time she had flu, she'd
slept more or less continuously for four days, until she suddenly
got up at two one night and declared:
'Better. Daisy fresh.'
Johanne could finally try that hair treatment that Lina
had given her. She could lie in the bath in peace. But there
were a couple of things she had to do before the weekend.
'Could you come a bit later? Around . . . two?'
'Of course I can, dear. Kristiane is so easy when she's ill. I'll bring my embroidery and a video I got from your sister
the other day, an old film she thought I would like. Steel
Magnolias with Shirley McLaine . . . '
'Mum, there's loads of videos here.'
'Yes, but you've got such . . . strange taste!'
Johanne shut her eyes.
'I do not have strange taste at all! There are films by ... '
'Yes, yes, dear. You do have slightly unusual taste. Just
admit it. Have you cut your hair yet? You sister looks so
lovely, she's just been to that new, hot hairdresser in
Prinsensgate, what's he called . . . '
Her mother giggled.
'He's a bit. . . They so often are, these hairdressers. But my goodness Maria looked wonderful.'
'I'm sure. So see you around two then?'
'Two o'clock on the dot. Shall I buy supper for the three
of us?'
'No, thank you. I've got vegetable soup in the freezer. It's the only thing I can get Kristiane to eat when she's ill.
There's enough for all of us.'
'Good. See you later.'
'See you.'

The bath water was just a couple of degrees too hot. Johanne leaned her head against the plastic pillow and inhaled the steam in deep breaths. Lemon and camomile from an expensive glass bottle that Isak had brought back from France. He still always bought her presents when he was abroad. Johanne wasn't quite sure why, but it was nice.
He had good taste. And lots of money.
'I've got good taste too,' she grumbled.
There were three worn-out towels hanging on the
hooks. One had a big picture of Tiger Boy and the othei two had been washed to a light pink.
'New towels,' she said to herself. 'Today.'
Her friends envied her her mother. Lina loved her. She's
so kind, said the other girls. She would do anything for you.
And she's always so with it. Reads and goes to the theatre,
and the way she dresses!
Her mother was kind. Too kind. Her mother was a general
of good causes, friend to prisoners, honorary member of
the Norwegian Women's Public Health Association,
nimble-fingered and unable to communicate directly.
Maybe that was the result of never having worked away
from home. Her life had been her husband and children
and voluntary work; an endless number of unpaid positions
and commissions that required a consistently friendly attitude
to everyone and everything. Her mother was a born
diplomat. She was as good as unable to formulate a sentence
where the content was what she actually wanted to
say. Your father is worried about you meant I'm worried sick.
Marie looks fabulous at the moment was her mother's way of
telling Johanne that she looked like something the cat
dragged in. When her mother arrived with a pile of
women's magazines, Johanne knew that they would be
about new fashion and twenty ways to find a man.
'You work so hard,' said her mother, and patted her arm.
And then Johanne knew that her mother didn't find
jeans, sweatshirts and four-year-old glasses particularly flattering.
Lina's
hair treatment was actually very pleasant. Her
scalp prickled and Johanne could actually feel her tired hair

sucking in the nourishment under the plastic hat. The
water had made her skin red. Jack was asleep and she heard
nothing from Kristiane's room. She had left the doors open,
just in case.
The book about Asbjorn Revheim was about to fall in
the water. She saved it just in time, and moved the coffee
cup from the edge of the bath to the floor.
The first chapter was about Revheim's death. Johanne
thought that it was a strange way to start a biography. She
wasn't sure that she wanted to read about his passing, so
she flicked through the pages. Chapter two was about his
childhood. In Lillestrom. The book fell in the water. Quick
as a flash she pulled it out again. Some of the pages had stuck together. It took some time before she found the
place where she'd dropped the book again.
There.
Asbjorn Revheim had changed his name in defiance
when he was a teenager. The biographer spent one and a
half pages discussing how incredible it was that in 1953, his
parents had allowed the teenager to reject his family name.
But then his parents weren't any old parents.
Asbjorn Revheim was born Kongsbakken. His mother
and father were Unni and Astor Kongsbakken; she was a
well-known tapestry weaver and he was a famous, not to
say notorious, public prosecutor.
The water was tepid now. She nearly forgot to rinse her
hair. When her mother arrived at two, Johanne barely had
time to tell her that Kristiane needed to have half a Disprin
dissolved in warm Coke in an hour and that the child could
drink what she wanted.
'Back about five,' she said. 'You can put Jack out on his
lead in the garden. And thank you, Mum!'

She completely forgot to explain why there was a biography
drying on a string between two dining chairs.

Alvhild was worse. The smell of onions had returned. The
old lady was in bed and the nurse instructed Johanne not to
stay long.
'I'll be back in a quarter of an hour,' she threatened.
'Hi,' said Johanne. 'It's me. Johanne.'
Alvhild struggled to open her eyes. Johanne pulled up a
chair and carefully laid her hand on the old lady's hand. It
was cold and dry.
'Johanne,' repeated Alvhild. 'I've been waiting for you.
Do tell.'
She gave a dry cough and tried to turn away. Her pillow
was too deep and her head seemed to be stuck and she
stared at the ceiling. Johanne took a paper tissue from a box
on the bedside table and dried around her mouth.
'Do you want some water?'
'No. I want to hear what you found out when you went
to Lillestrom.'
'Are you sure ... I can come again tomorrow . . . You're
too tired now, Alvhild.'
'I'll be the judge of that.'
She coughed painfully again.
'Tell me,' ordered Alvhild.
And Johanne told her. For a while she was unsure
whether Alvhild was actually awake. But then a smile
forced its way on to the old lady's lips; Johanne should just
carry on.
'And then today,' she said finally. 'Today I discovered
that Astor Kongsbakken is Asbjorn Revheim's father.'
'I knew that,' whispered Alvhild.
'You knew that?'
'Yes. Kongsbakken was an imposing character. He had a
very high standing in legal circles in the fifties and early sixties.
There was a lot of whispering about how embarrassing
it must be for him to have a son who wrote books like that.
He . . But I didn't know that Revheim had anything to do
with the Seier case.'
'It's not entirely certain that he does.'
Alvhild struggled with the pillow. She wanted to sit up.
Her hand fumbled to find the small box that regulated the
bed.
'Are you sure that's good for you?' asked Johanne, and
gently pushed a green button.
Alvhild nodded weakly and nodded again when she was
satisfied. Pearls of sweat appeared on her forehead.
'When Fever Chill was published in ... '
'1961,' said Johanne. She had read most of the biography.
'Yes,
that sounds right. There was a terrible to-do. Not
just because of the pornographic content, but perhaps even
more because of the bitter attacks on the Church. It must
have been the same year that Astor Kongsbakken stepped
down as public prosecutor and joined the Ministry as an
adviser. He . . . '
Alvhild gasped for breath.
'. . . water in my lungs,' she smiled weakly. 'Just wait a
little bit.'
The nurse had come back.
'Now I'm being serious,' she said. Her large bosom
jumped in time with the words. 'This is not good for
Alvhild.'
'Astor Kongsbakken,' wheezed Alvhild with great effort,

I 'was a good friend of the director general. The one who
asked me to ... '
'Go,' said the nurse, and pointed to the door; she prepared
an injection with practised movements.
"I'm going,' said Johanne. 'I'm going now.'
'They were friends from university,' whispered Alvhild.
'Come back again, Johanne.'
'Yes,' said Johanne. "I'll come back when you're better.'
The look the nurse gave her said that she might as well
wait till Hell froze over.

When Johanne got home, it smelt clean. Kristiane was still
sleeping. The living room had been aired and the curtains
taken down. Even the bookcase had been tidied: books
that had been piled on top of each other in a rush were now
put back in their rightful place. The massive heap of old
newspapers by the front door had disappeared. So had Jack.
'A walk will do your father good,' said her mother. 'It's
not long since they left. The curtains desperately needed a
wash. And here
She handed her the Asbjorn Revheim biography. It
looked as if it had been read front to back and was well
worn, but it was still hanging together and it was dry.
'I used the hair dryer,' said her mother and smiled. 'It
was actually quite fun to see if I could save it. And
She tilted her head almost imperceptibly and raised an

eyebrow.
'A man came here. A certain Adam Stubo. He was delivering
a T-shirt. It was obviously yours because it had Vik
written on the back. Had he borrowed it from you? Who is
he? I think he could at least have washed it.'


49



The pathologist was alone in the office. It was late on
Sunday 4 June and he was hopelessly behind in his
work. He was getting on for sixty-five and in many ways he
felt that he was hopelessly behind in many areas. For years
he'd put up with bad working conditions, too much to do
and a salary that in his opinion bore no relation to the pressures
of the job, but now he was starting to get angry. In
terms of professional satisfaction, he had no regrets. But
now that he was nearing retirement, he wished he had a
better income. He earned just under six hundred thousand
kroner a year, when you included teaching and overtime.
Which he'd stopped counting. His wife reckoned it must
be about a thousand hours a year. It was of no concern to
him that most other people thought his salary was impressive.
His twin brother, who was also a doctor, had pursued
a career in surgery. He had his own clinic, a house in
Provence and a taxable fortune worth seven million, according
to the last tax rolls.
Sunday was his reading day. His position was actually
supposed to allow him time to keep up to date with developments
in the field within normal working hours. In the
past decade, he had virtually never read an article between
nine and four o'clock. Instead, he got up very early on
Sunday morning, put a packed lunch and thermos in his
rucksack and walked the half-hour to work.
He was depressed by the time he had sorted the magazines,
periodicals and theses into two piles: one must read
and the other can wait. The latter was very small. The
former towered from the floor to knee height. At a loss, he
grabbed the publication on top and poured himself a cup of
strong coffee.
Excitation-concentration coupling in normal and failing car
diomyocytes.
The thesis was from January 1999 and had been there
for a while. He was not familiar with the author. It was difficult
to say whether the thesis was relevant without taking
a closer look. He was tempted to pick something else out of
the pile. But he pulled himself together and started to read.


The pathologist's hands were shaking. He put the publication
down. It was so alarming and at the same time so
obvious that he was afraid, for many reasons. The answer
was not in the thesis itself. It had just made him think. He
felt his adrenalin levels rising, his pulse racing and his
breathing quickening. He had to get hold of a pharmacist.
The telephone directory fell on the floor as he tried to find
the number of his wife's best friend, who owned a chemist
at Tasen. She was at home. The conversation lasted for
ten minutes. The pathologist forgot to thank her for her
help.
Adam Stubo had left his card. The pathologist searched
among all the paper and Post-it notes, penholders and
reports, but the card had vanished. He finally remembered
that he had stuck it up on the corkboard. He had to punch
the number into his mobile twice. His fingers felt sticky.
'Stubo,' said a voice from the ether.
The pathologist took a minute to explain why he had
phoned. There was silence on the other end of the phone.
'Hello?'

288
'Yes, I'm still here,' said Stubo. 'What sort of stuff is it?'
'Potassium.'
'What is potassium?'
'It's one of the substances in our cells.'
'I'm sorry, I don't understand. How . . . '
The pathologist was still shaking. He was clutching the
phone and changed his grip in an attempt to calm down.
'To put it as simply as possible, so simply that it's nearly
imprecise,' he started and coughed. 'There is a certain level
of potassium in human cells, which is essential for our survival.
When we die - how can I put this - our cells start
to . . . leak. In the course of an hour or two, the level of
potassium in the fluid surrounding the cells will rise
sharply. Which is in fact an obvious sign that you are dead.'
The pathologist was sweating; his shirt was sticking to
his body and he tried to breathe slowly.
'So the fact that potassium levels around each cell have
risen since the time of death is in itself not remarkable. It's
normal.'
'And . . . ?'
'The problem is that this level will also rise if you supply
the body with potassium in some way. When the person is
alive, that is. But then . . . they die. A rise in the potassium
level results in heart failure.'
'But then it must be easy to trace the stuff?'
The pathologist raised his voice:
'Listen to what I'm saying! If you get an injection of
potassium and die of it, the cause of death cannot be
proven unless the autopsy is carried out immediately! A
delay of one to two hours is sufficient. Then the higher
potassium levels will simply be ascribed to the death of that
person! The autopsy won't show anything at all, except that
the person in question is no longer alive and that there is no
evidence of the cause of death.' 'Oh my God. . . '
Stubo swallowed so loudly that the pathologist heard.
'But where would he get the poison?'
'It isn't a poison, for Christ's sake!'
The pathologist was practically shouting. When he
opened his mouth again, his voice was trembling and low:
'First of all, both you and I take in potassium every day.
In our normal food. Not significant amounts, granted, but
all the same . . . You can buy potassium by the kilo from the
chemist! That is, you can buy potassium chloride. If that is
then injected into the bloodstream, it separates into potassium
and chlorides, to put it simply. The potassium
chloride has to be diluted so that it's not too strong, as it can
damage tissues and veins.'
?'
'Can be bought at the chemist's? But who
'Without a prescription.'
' Without a prescription?'
'Yes, but as far as I know, very few chemists actually
stock it. It can be ordered. There is also a special potassium
chloride product that you can only get with a prescription,
which is used by patients who are losing potassium. 1
should imagine that most intensive care units would have
some in stock.'
'Tell me if I've understood this correctly,' said Stubo
slowly. 'If someone gives me an injection with enough
diluted potassium, I'll die. And then if you get me on your
slab more than one hour later, you would only be able to
confirm that I'm dead, and not how I died. Is that what
you're saying?'
'Yes. But I would still see a syringe mark.'
'Syringe mar . . . But there weren't any injection marks
on Kim and Sarah?'
'No, not that I saw'
'Not that you saw? You did check the children for injections?'
'Of
course.'

The pathologist felt exhausted. His pulse was still high
and he breathed in deeply.
'But I have to admit that I didn't shave them.'
'Shave? We're talking about two small kids.'
'On the head. We try to minimise incisions and interference
when we do an autopsy, as we don't want the family to
be offended or shocked by what we're required to do. It's
possible to make an injection in the temple area. Not easy, but possible. I have to confess
He could hear Stubo holding his breath at the other end
of the phone.
'. . . I didn't check for syringe marks around the temples.
I just didn't think about it.'
They were both thinking the same thing. Neither dared
say it. Sarah's body was still available to the pathologist. Kim had already been buried.
'Thank goodness we refused permission to cremate,' said Adam eventually.
'I apologise,' said the pathologist. 'I really do apologise. With all my heart.'
'I'm sorry too,' said Adam. 'As far as I understand,
you've just described the perfect murder to me.'

"MY son-in-law is in Copenhagen,' said Adam, and put
the small boy down on the floor.
The child was somewhere between two and three. He
had brown eyes and black hair and smiled shyly at Johanne
while keeping a firm hold of his grandfather's calf.
'He's coming back tomorrow morning. I normally have
Amund on Tuesdays and every other weekend, but the way
things have been recently ... I haven't had a chance to do
that. And this was an emergency so I couldn't say no.'
He squatted down. The boy didn't want to take off his
jacket. Adam pulled down the zip and let him keep it on.
Then he tapped the boy gently on the bottom and said:
'Johanne has got some great toys, I'm sure.'
Why didn't you ask me to come to you? she thought.
I've never been to your house and it's past eight. You knew
that Kristiane was with Isak and this child should be in bed.
I could have come to you.
'Come,' she said, and took the boy by the hand. 'Let's
see what we can find.'
Amund beamed when she led him to the box of cars. He
grabbed a tractor and held it up in the air.
'Red tractor,' he said. 'Red lorry. Red bus.'
'He's a bit obsessed with colours at the moment,' said

Adam.
'He'll have a boring time here then,' said Johanne, and
helped Amund with a bulldozer that had lost its front
wheels.
'It's exactly a month since Emilie disappeared. Have you
thought about that?'
'No,' he said. 'But you're right. Fourth of May. Where's

Jack?'
'I think . . . ' Johanne started. The boy dropped the
bulldozer and studied an ambulance that Isak had painted
with bright-red enamel.
'Red ambulance,' said the boy with some scepticism.
Johanne sat down at the table.
'I think the deal is that the dog goes with Kristiane. And
to be honest, thank God for that. I've spent an hour getting
rid of the smell of dog and puppy piss. Without entirely
succeeding, I'm afraid.'
She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose slightly before
adding:
'Looks like something's bothering you.'
Adam Stubo seemed bigger. It couldn't just be her imagination,
he looked like he'd put on weight over the past few
weeks. His cheeks were rounder and his shirt was tighter at
the neck. He was constantly running his finger under his
collar. His tie was coming loose. Johanne had noticed that
he always ate too much and too fast.
'I hope it's not too rude to ask if you've got any food?' he
said in a tired voice. 'I'm so hungry.'

Amund was asleep in Johanne's bed. It had taken an hour
to put him down. Finally Adam came out of the bedroom.
He had stuffed his tie in his pocket now and the top buttons
of his shirt were open. He folded up the sleeves and
sank into the sofa. It creaked underneath him. He grabbed
a Danish pastry from the glass plate and wolfed it in three
fast mouthfuls.
'This potassium theory is truly terrifying,' he said, and
wiped the crumbs away from his mouth. 'I mean, it's frightening
enough in this case, but if people get wind of it... '
'The problem is the injection mark,' said Johanne pensively.
'But if the victim is . . . if the person is sick or a drug
addict or for any other reason might have injection tracks
without raising an alarm, well then it's
'Terrifying.'
'But you said that the fluid that's injected consists of
potassium and something else?'
'Potassium chloride. Which separates into potassium and
chloride in the blood.'
Johanne frowned.
'Would there not be traces of chloride then?'
Adam looked like he was about to take another Danish.
Then he brushed his hands and folded them behind his

head.
'I'm not sure if I understand it entirely, but the point is
that the level of chlorides in the body is higher than the
level of potassium.'
Adam closed his eyes to think. Then he opened them
again, leaned forward and started to draw with his finger on
the glass top.
'I might not get all the figures exactly right, but at least
they illustrate what I'm getting at. Let's say that your level
of potassium is three of some measure or another.'
'OK. Three measures potassium.'
'Then your chloride level is actually a hundred. This can
rise to one hundred and five without it being dangerous or
remarkable. A similar increase from three to eight measures
of potassium would, on the other hand, kill a person. This
really is the recipe for the perfect murder.'
'Which explains why he had to abduct the children,' said
Johanne. 'He had to take them somewhere where he could
drug them with Valium and then inject them in the
temple.'
'If that's what he did.'
'Mmm. If that's what he did. When will we find out
more?'
'The pathologist will look at Sarah first, tomorrow morning.
We're going to do what we can to avoid opening Kim's
grave.'
They both looked at the bedroom. The door was ajar.
'If that's the case, we certainly know more about the
murderer,' said Johanne.
'How exactly?'
'We know that he has access to potassium.'
'But we all do.'
'But you said only a few chemists actually stock it.'
'Of course we'll question all the chemists in the country.
The pathologist reckoned that an order of potassium is
unusual enough to be remembered. But the murderer may
have bought it abroad. God knows he's careful enough. And
then there's the problem with the hospitals. Intensive care
units have potassium in store. And there are a good number
of intensive care units in Norway.'
'But we know more,' said Johanne slowly. 'We know that
not only is the murderer an intelligent man, he also knows
about a method that only a handful of doctors would--'
Adam interrupted: 'The pathologist was really shaken.
He must be around sixty-five and he said he had never
thought about killing people in this way before. Never. And
he's a pathologist!'
He raised himself slightly from the sofa and hunted in
his back pocket for the printout that Sigmund Berli had
scribbled on. It was torn and would not lie flat on the table.
'Which makes our gynaecologist more interesting
again,' he said thoughtfully, and pointed at the doctor's
name. 'And the nurse for that matter. Except that she's a
woman. But it knocks out--'
'We're not looking for a woman,' said Johanne. 'And it's
not likely to be a doctor.'
Adam glanced up and asked: 'What makes you so sure?'
'This new information mustn't make us forget what
we've worked out already,' she said firmly. 'We're still talking
about a damaged person. A psychopath or someone
with clearly psychopathic tendencies. I think we're looking
for a man with a string of broken relationships behind him.
Also in terms of his education, he has possibly studied at university, but is unable to complete a course given the
obligations and efforts required to do that. He may well be
intelligent, possibly very intelligent, and can therefore benefit
from any knowledge he does pick up. A world of
information has opened up on the Internet in recent years.
You can find everything from recipes for bombs to suicide
clubs; it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if there's a
website somewhere about unusual murder methods. For
that matter, our man might be smart enough to have
worked it out himself, based on information from the
countless medical websites. He's definitely intelligent. But
he has never managed to get an official qualification. How
long does it take to train to be a nurse now? Four years? I
reckon it would be more or less impossible for this man to
complete something like that.'
'But why the precision?' 'With the potassium, you mean?'
'Yes. Why such an . . . advanced murder method? He
could have strangled them, shot them, drowned them for
that matter!'
'Control,' said Johanne. 'Arrogance. He wants to prove
he's better than anyone else. Remember, this is a man who
feels he's been wronged. Deeply wronged. Not just by one
person, or one event. He's built up an arsenal of defeats to
be avenged. To manage to kill children without us even
discovering how it's--'
'Grandpa,' said a thin little voice.
It frightened Johanne that she hadn't heard the boy. He
was already out in the room, with a teddy bear under his
arm. His T-shirt had a big fleck of ketchup on it, but
Adam had refused the offer of borrowing some of
Kristiane's old pyjamas. The top of the boy's nappy was
sagging well below his belly button and an unmistakable
smell made Johanne get up and guide him over to the
bathroom. For some reason she hoped that Adam would
not follow. Amund was unusually trusting. When she sat
down on the toilet seat and took off his nappy, he gave a
big smile.
'Jojonne,' he said, and stroked her cheek with his podgy
hand.
Adam had left a bag with non-perfumed soap, three nappies
and a dummy in the bathroom.
You assumed that the boy would sleep here, she
thought. Taking pyjamas might have been a bit obvious.
But three nappies?
'Grandpa is an old fox,' she said, and lifted the boy up
into the sink.
'Not wash bottom now,' said Amund with determination,
and kicked his legs. 'Not wash.'
'Yes,' said Johanne. 'You've got poo there. Away with the

poo.'
She wiped his bottom with a cloth. Amund laughed.
'Not wash,' he said, and hiccuped when she turned on
the tap and let the warm water run over his skin.
'You have to be all clean and beautiful, then you'll sleep

well.'
'Bulances are white,' said Amund. 'Not red.'
'You're right, Amund. Ambulances are white.'
'Bulances,' he said.
'Clever boy.'
The boy snuggled into the towel.
'No more sleep,' he said and laughed.
'I don't think so,' said Adam from the doorway. 'Come
here, Grandpa'll put you back to bed. Thank you,
Johanne.'
It didn't work. Half an hour later, Adam emerged from
the bedroom with the child in his arms.
'He'll fall asleep here,' he said half apologetically, and
then gave the boy a dark look. He just smiled and pushed
his dummy in.
'He'll just have to lie in my lap.'
The little boy almost disappeared in his grandfather's
arms. The tip of his nose was just visible over a green blanket.
His eyes closed after only a few minutes and his
regular sucking quietened. Adam pulled the blanket away
from his face. His dark hair looked nearly black against
Adam's white shirt. The child's eyelashes were wet, and so
long that they meshed together.
'Children,' said Johanne quietly, unable to take her eyes
off Amund. 'I can't help thinking that the children are the
key to understanding this case. At first I thought it was 
something to do with the murderer's own childhood. Full of loss
A sense of loss linked to his childhood. And perhaps
She breathed in and out deeply.
'Maybe I'm right. But there's something more. There's
something to do with these children. Even though they are
not his. It's as if... '
She got lost in her train of thought.
Adam said nothing. Amund was fast asleep. Johanne suddenly
shook her head, as if returning from far-flung thoughts,
and said: 'Do you think he's got a child that he can't see?'
'I think you're taking it a bit far now,' said Adam quietly,
while straightening the boy's head. 'What makes you say
that?'
'It just fits. With everything. Let's imagine that this is a
man who attracts women, but who never manages to keep
them. One of the women gets pregnant. She chooses to
have the child. But the idea of letting him be with the child
must be rather frightening. She might have
'But why these children in particular? If you're right in
thinking that Glenn Hugo, Kim, Sarah and Emilie were not
randomly chosen, what is it about them? If the guy had
been going around getting women pregnant for years and
all the victims were his children, then . . . But they're not.
At least, they don't appear to be. What is it that made him
choose them then?'
'I don't know,' she said, suddenly tired. 'I don't know
anything other than that there must be a reason. This man
has a plan. There's an absurd logic to what he's doing. Even
though he differs from a typical serial killer in a number of
ways. For example, the fact that there's no obvious cycle in the abductions. No pattern, no obvious system. We don't
even know if he's finished.'
Silence fell again. Adam tucked the blanket in around
Amund and put his lips to the dark head. The child's breathing was light and rhythmic.
'That's what I'm most afraid of,' whispered Adam. 'That
he's not finished yet.'

In the white house at the edge of the woods an hour and a
half's drive from Oslo, the murderer had just come back
from jogging. He was bleeding at the knee. It was dark outside
and he'd tripped on the root of a tree. The cut wasn't
deep, but it was bleeding heavily all the same. He usually
kept the plasters in the third drawer beside the sink. The
box was empty. Annoyed, he found a sterile compress in
the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He had to wind a
bandage round the compress, as he'd run out of surgical
tape as well. Of course he shouldn't have gone jogging so
late. But he was restless. He limped into the living room
and switched on the TV.
He hadn't been down to the cellar today. Emilie
repulsed him more than ever. He wanted to get rid of her.
The problem was that he had no one to deliver the damn
child to.
'Nineteenth of June,' he half mumbled to himself, and
zapped between the channels.
Everything would be over by then. Six weeks and four
days after Emilie disappeared. He would drive in, take the
fifth child and deliver it back the same day. The date was
not randomly chosen. Nothing was random in this world.
There was a plan behind everything.
His boss had called him into the office on Friday. Given
him a written warning. The only thing he'd done was take
some tools home. He didn't even intend to steal them.
They were only old tools and he was going to take them
back. The boss didn't believe him. Someone must have
blabbed.
He knew who was out to get him.
It was all part of a plan.
He could make plans too.
'Nineteenth of June,' he repeated, and switched to teletext.
He
would have to get rid of Emilie before then. Maybe
she was dead already. He certainly didn't intend to give her
any more food.
His knee was bloody painful.

'The letters,' she said out loud, interrupting herself in mid
sentence.
Adam still had Amund on his lap, as if the conversation
made it impossible for him to move him.
'The letters,' she repeated and slapped her forehead.
'On Aksel's chess table!'
Johanne had finally told Adam about the trip to
Lillestrom. About the connection between the mentally
retarded Anders Mohaug and the author Asbjorn Revheim.
Who was the youngest son of Astor Kongsbakken, the prosecutor
in the case against Aksel Seier. Adam's reaction was
difficult to interpret, but Johanne thought she saw a frown
on his forehead that indicated that he felt the connection
was too remarkable to put it down to coincidence.
'The letters?' he said in a questioning voice.
'Yes! After I'd been at Aksel Seier's I kept thinking there
was something I'd seen there that didn't belong. And I've
just remembered what it was. A pile of letters on the chess
table.'
'But letters . . . we all get letters every now and then.'
'The stamps,' said Johanne, 'were Norwegian. The pile
was tied together with a piece of string.'
'In other words, you only saw the one on top,' said
Adam.
'Yes, that's right.'
She nodded and continued: 'But I'm sure that it was a
pile of letters from the same person. They were from
Norway, Adam. Aksel Seier gets letters from Norway. He's
in touch with someone here.'
'So?'
'He said nothing about it to me. It seemed as if he'd had
nothing to do with his homeland since he left.'
'To be honest. . . '
Adam moved the child over to his other arm. Amund
grunted but continued to sleep.
'You only had a fairly short conversation with the man!
There's nothing unusual about the fact that he's kept in
touch with someone here, a friend or someone from the
family
'He doesn't have any family in Norway. Not that I know

of.'
'Now you're making a mountain out of a molehill over
something that probably has a perfectly reasonable explanation.'
'Could
he . . . could he be getting money from someone?
Is he being paid not to make a fuss? Is that why he never
tried to clear himself? Is that the explanation for why he
just disappeared when I wanted to help him?'
Adam smiled. Johanne didn't like the expression in his
eyes.
'Forget it,' he said. 'That's very conspiracy theory. I've
got something far more interesting to tell you. Astor
Kongsbakken is still alive.'
'What?'
'Yep. He's ninety-two and lives with his wife in Corsica.
They've got a farm there, some sort of vineyard, as far as I
can make out. I was fairly sure he wasn't dead, as I would
have remembered if he'd died. So I poked around a bit. He
retired from public life over twenty years ago and has lived
down there ever since.'
'I have to talk to him!'
'You could try ringing him.'
'Have you got his number as well?'
Adam chuckled.
'There are limits. No. Phone directory enquiries.
According to my information, he's still got a clear head on
him, but is physically frail.'
Adam got up slowly, without waking the boy. He pulled
the blanket tight around him and looked questioningly at
Johanne. She nodded back indifferently and went to collect
Amund's things from the bedroom.
'I'll bring the blanket back tomorrow,' he said, and struggled
to get everything with him in one go.
'Do that,' she said lamely.
He stood up straight and looked at her. Amund lay over
his shoulder and was mumbling in his sleep. His dummy
had fallen to the floor, so she bent down to pick it up. When
she held it up to Adam, he took hold of her hand and
wouldn't let go.
'There's nothing special about Astor Kongsbakken
being friends with Alvhild's director general,' he insisted. 'Lots of lawyers know each other. You know what it's like
these days! Norway is a small country. And it was even
smaller in the fifties and sixties. All the lawyers must have
known each other!'
'But not all lawyers were involved in an alarming miscarriage
of justice,' she said.
'No,' said Adam, giving up. 'But we don't know that
they were, either.'
She followed him out to the car to help him with the
doors. They didn't say another word until Amund was
belted into the child seat and the things had been put in
beside him.
'Speak soon,' said Adam lightly.
'Mmm,' said Johanne and went back into the empty flat.
She wished at least the King of America was there.

51



Adam Stubo felt miserable. The waistband of his
trousers was pressing into his gut and the seat belt was
far too tight. He had problems breathing. It was ten minutes
since he'd turned off from the main road north. The
road he was on now was narrow and winding and was
making him feel sick. When he spotted a bus stop, he
swung in and stopped. He loosened his tie, opened the top
button of his shirt and leaned back against the headrest.
Adam Stubo was forty-five and felt old.
He was sixteen when he'd met Elizabeth. They got married
as soon as they were old enough and had Trine
immediately. He'd come home from work one day many
years later to find a sleeping baby in an otherwise empty
house.
It was in the middle of summer. The smell of jasmine
drifted over the neighbourhood at Nordstrand. Trine's car,
an old Fiesta that she got from her parents, was parked outside,
its front wheels actually on the lawn. That annoyed
him. He was irritated when he went in. He was hungry. He
had promised to be home by five, but it was already a quarter
past six. The silence was tangible and made him stop in
the hall and listen. The house was empty, empty of noises
and empty of people. No supper smells, no tinkling of
glasses and crockery. He found himself tiptoeing in, as if he
already knew what he would find.
He had managed to get an ink stain on his trousers in the
course of the day. Just by the pocket. He'd been fiddling
with a felt pen that broke. Elizabeth had bought him new
clothes only two days ago. When he tried them on, she shook
her head and said that it was stupid to buy khaki trousers for
a man like Adam. She had kissed him and laughed.
He stood still in the living room. He couldn't even hear
the birds singing in the garden; he looked out of the
window and saw them flying around, but he heard nothing,
even though the French doors were open.
Amund was upstairs. He was two months old and asleep.
When Adam found Elizabeth and Trine, he just stood
there. He didn't check their pulses. Trine stared at him, her
brown eyes glazed over by a matt film. Elizabeth was
gaping at the afternoon sky, her front teeth had been
knocked out and her nose had more or less disappeared.
Adam jumped. A bus tooted its horn.
He slowly started the engine and slid out of the lay-by.
He had to find somewhere else to stop. He was going to
throw up.
He opened the car door at the next turn-off and emptied
his stomach before the car had even come to a standstill.
Luckily, he had a bottle of water with him.
He had stayed in the laundry all night. The ink stain was
stubborn. He tried everything. White spirit, stain remover,
soft soap. Finally, when it started to get light, he grabbed a
pair of scissors and cut out the stain.
Several of his colleagues said he could stay with them.
He just waved them away. His son-in-law was in Japan and
came home forty hours too late. Adam held on to Amund
and started to cry, at last. He didn't want to let go of the
child. His son-in-law moved in and stayed for over a year.
The water bottle was practically empty. Adam tried to
take deep steady breaths.
He didn't have a clue what to do about Johanne. He had
no idea what to do. He couldn't understand her. He had
taken Amund with him in the hope that something might
happen, that she might see who he really was and maybe
ask him to stay. A lady colleague had once said to him that
it was sweet that he cared so much about his grandson.
Sexy, she had smiled, and nearly made him blush.
He must stop eating so much. He stroked his hand over
his stomach, his diaphragm was tender from retching. He
was getting fat.
Johanne seemed to think he was about sixty.
Adam drank the last drops of the water and started the
car again. He couldn't bear to fasten the seat belt.
The examination of Sarah Baardsen had confirmed the
pathologist's horrible theory about a potassium death. On
her temple, just under the hairline, he found an almost
imperceptible mark. A syringe mark. He had said it gently,
with resignation, and then put down the phone. They still
hadn't decided what to do about Kim, who was already
buried.
The gynaecologist, who presumably could give injections,
had proved to be of very little interest. He was
accommodating. Understood absolutely why Adam was
there. Answered all the questions. Looked him straight in
the eye. Shook his head apologetically. His voice was deep
and melodic; the traces of a half-forgotten dialect made
Adam think of his wife. The doctor was married, had three
children and two grandchildren. Part-time position in a hospital
and his own practice.
Cato Sylling, the plumber in Lillestrom, was working in
Fetsund. He sounded more than happy to help when Adam
phoned. Could come in to Oslo the next day. No problem.
It was a terrible tragedy, he really felt for Lasse and Turid
and would do anything he could to help.
'Got kids myself, y'know. Shit. Would strangle the guy
with my own hands if I got 'im. See ya tomorrow at one.'
It hadn't been hard to find out Karsten Asli's address. He
had a telephone and was registered with Telenor. It was
harder to find the damn place. Adam had to stop and ask for
directions three times. He eventually chanced upon a
petrol station where an odd fat guy with ginger hair combed
over his bald patch knew where Adam had to go.
'Three turnings from here,' he pointed. 'First right, then
two left. Drive on for about six or seven hundred metres
and you'll see the house. But be careful, otherwise your
undercarriage might break.'
'Thanks,' muttered Adam and put the car into gear.

Karsten Asli had just decided to give Emilie her last meal.
Not that it would make any difference. She didn't eat any
more, anyway. He didn't know if she drank anything. She
touched nothing he gave her, but there was water in the

tap.
A car was coming up the hill.
Karsten Asli looked out of the kitchen window down the

old dirt track.
The car was blue, dark blue. As far as he could see, it

was a Volvo.
No one ever came here. Only the postman, and he drove
a white Toyota.


52



Before she phoned, she decided what she was going to
say and how she was going to phrase the questions. But
she was taken aback when Astor Kongsbakken answered
the phone. Suddenly there he was, on the other end of the
line, and Johanne had no idea where to begin.
He talked loudly, which might mean that he was slightly
deaf. It could also have been because he was furious. When
she mentioned Aksel Seier's name, a bit too soon, she was
sure he was going to hang up. But he didn't. Instead, the
conversation took a turn that she hadn't anticipated: he
asked the questions and she answered.
Astor Kongsbakken's message was, however, crystal
clear. He remembered very little about the case and had
absolutely no intention of picking through his memory for
Johanne Vik's sake. He reminded her three times of his
great age and ended by threatening to call a lawyer.
Precisely what the lawyer was going to do was uncertain.
Johanne flicked through Asbjorn Revheim: An Account of a
Suicide Forewarned. There could be many reasons why Astor
Kongsbakken got angry. He was ninety-two, and for all she
knew might be notoriously bad-tempered. In the fifties,
there had already been plenty of stories about the man's
temperament. The two pictures of him in the biography
showed a stocky man with broad shoulders and jutting jaw,
quite different from his son's tall, more slender figure. In
one of the photographs, the renowned public prosecutor
was wearing a black cloak and holding a law book in his

raised right hand, as though he was deciding whether or not
to throw it at the Bench. His eyes were dark under his
bushy brows and it looked as if he was shouting. Astor
Kongsbakken had certainly been a passionate man. And not
everyone calms down as they get older.
There was a brother, Astor and Unni's oldest son.
Johanne wetted her finger and leafed through the book to
the right page. Geir Kongsbakken was a lawyer and had a
small practice in Ovre Slottsgate. He was given no more
than five lines. Johanne decided to phone him. If nothing
else, he might be able to help her speak to his father again.
It was worth a try, at least.
She rang his secretary and made an appointment for ten
o'clock on 6 June. When the woman asked what it was
about, Johanne hesitated for a moment before answering:
'It's something to do with a criminal case. I doubt it'll

take long.'
'Tomorrow then,' confirmed the friendly female voice.
'I'll put you down for half an hour. Have a nice day.'

53



Karsten Asli held his breath. Through the double-glazed
windows he heard the Volvo changing down from
second to first gear as the driver negotiated the final uphill
bend before the gate.
Karsten Asli had lived at Snaubu for just under a year.
The smallholding had cost him next to nothing, as it was
still subject to a statutory duty to occupy, even though it
was impossible to live off the small piece of arable land and
few acres of woods. But the place was perfect for him. He
had used the first few months to extend the cellar, which
was really nothing more than a slightly upgraded renovation
of the old potato cellar. As it lay below the house,
under a steep slope, it wasn't a problem to make the room
big enough and it lay behind the original cellar. He was
proud of what he'd managed to do. When he'd bought the
cement and concrete, wood and tools, pipes and wires, no
one had asked what he was going to do with it all. The
house was run down. He renewed the panelling on a
couple of exterior walls and started to build a wall for a
garage, in case anyone should come. Snaubu stood on its
own, about fifteen minutes from the nearest neighbours.
Isolated and out of sight, just as he wanted. No one had
come to Snaubu.
Until now. The dark-blue Volvo pulled into the yard and
stopped. Karsten Asli remained standing in the kitchen. He
didn't pull back, didn't try to hide. He just stood still and
watched the car door opening. A man got out. He seemed
to be stiff. Uncomfortable. First he rubbed his face vigorously
and then he tried to straighten his back. He pulled a
face, as if he'd been driving all day. The number plate was
from Oslo, which was only two hours away. The man
looked around. Karsten Asli stood still. When the stranger
obviously noticed him at the window - he raised his hand
in an awkward greeting - Karsten Asli went out into the
hall. He took a red sweater from one of the hooks and
pulled it on. Then he opened the front door.
'Hi,' he said.
'Hello.'
The stranger came forward, holding out his hand. He
was heavily built. Fat, thought Karsten Asli. Tired and fat.
'Adam Stubo,' said the man.
'Karsten,' said Karsten Asli, and thought about the
cement that was left from making the walls for the cellar.
The tools. No one ever came to visit. Except this man.
'Great place,' said the stranger and looked around.
'Fantastic view. Have you lived here long?'
'Awhile.'
'You forgot to register that you'd moved. It was hard to
find you. Can I come in?'
There was nothing inside. Karsten Asli mentally went
from room to room. Nothing. No children's clothes. No
toys. No pictures or newspaper cuttings. Tidy. Proper.
Clean.
'Fine.'
He went in first. He heard the stranger's steps behind
him, heavy, tired footsteps. The man was exhausted.
Karsten was fit and young.
'Wow,' exclaimed Stubo. 'You certainly keep a tidy

home!'
Karsten Asli didn't like the man's eyes. They were looking
everywhere. It was as if the man had a camera in his
head and left nothing unturned. Not the sofa, not the TV,
not the poster from the holiday in Greece with Ellen,
before everything went wrong.
'What can I do for you?'
'I work for the police.'
Karsten Asli shrugged his shoulders and sat down on a
chair. The policeman continued to wander round the room,
turning everything over with his eyes.
He wouldn't find anything. There was nothing to find.
'And how can I help you? Would you like a cup of coffee

or something?'
The man had his back to him. Maybe he was looking at
the view. Maybe he was thinking.
'No, thank you. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm

here.'
Karsten Asli was not wondering. He knew.
'Yes,' he said. 'Why are you here?'
'It's to do with these abductions.'
'Right?'
'Terrible case,' said the policeman, turning around suddenly.
His
camera eyes locked on to Karsten.
'I agree,' he said, and nodded slowly. 'Awful.'
He kept eye contact. Kept his breathing regular. Karsten
knew what might happen. Had taken it into consideration.
There was no danger. None at all. And in any case, the
policeman was older than he was. Old and unfit.
'The investigation is very complex and we have to
follow all the leads that we get. That's where you come into
the picture.'
The policeman smiled too much. He grinned all the
time.
'Two of the children's parents knew you at some point.'

Two. Two!
Karsten Asli shook his head vaguely.
'To be honest, I've not really been following the case,'
he said. 'Obviously you can't avoid getting the general picture,
but. . . Who is it who knows me?'
'Turid Sande Oksoy.'
Turid would never tell. Never. Not even now. Karsten
Asli could tell from Stubo's face; the policeman's left eye
wanted to wink, but he managed to stop it. This forced
movement revealed a lie.
Again he shook his head.
'I'm fairly certain that I don't know anyone called that,'
he said, and rubbed his temples, without taking his eyes
from Stubo. 'Or. . . hang on ... '
He clicked the fingers on his right hand lightly.
'Yes, I heard about her on TV. Like I said, I haven't
really been following, it's all a bit much, I think, but. . . Yes.
That was . . . the boy's mother. The oldest boy. Am I right?'

'Yes.'
'But I don't know her. Why would she say that?'
'Lena Baardsen.'
The policeman was still staring at him. His left eye was
calm now, immobile.
'Lena Baardsen,' repeated Karsten Asli slowly. 'Lena. I
had a girlfriend once called Lena. Was her surname
Baardsen? I can't actually remember.'
He smiled at the policeman. Stubo wasn't smiling any

more.
'It must be . . . about ten years ago. At least! I've known
a couple of women called Lene. With an E. A colleague of
mine at Saga is called Lina. But that's not really relevant.'
'No.'
The policeman finally sat down on the sofa. He immediately
seemed smaller.
'What's your line of work?' he asked casually, showing
nearly no interest, as if they'd just met in a pub and were
sipping pints of beer.
'I work at Saga. The timber factory. In the village. Just
down the road.'
'I thought you were a youth worker?'
'Was. I've done a bit of everything. Lots of different
jobs.'
'Training?'
'Lots.'
'What sort of thing?'
'The same. Bits here and there. Are you sure you don't
want a coffee?'
Stubo nodded and lifted a hand.
'Is it OK if I get myself a cup?'
'Of course.'
Karsten didn't like leaving him alone in the living
room. Even though there was nothing there, nothing other
than completely normal living-room things, furniture, a
couple of books and not much else, it was as if the man
was contaminating the whole house. He was a stranger
and he was unwelcome. The policeman had to go. Karsten
gripped the edge of the worktop. He was thirsty. His
tongue stuck to the top of his mouth and the inside of his
teeth. The water gushed out of the tap. He bent over and
drank greedily. He had cement and tools in the cellar and
would soon get rid of Emilie. He could not quench his
thirst. It was cold on his front teeth. He moaned slightly
and drank more. More.
'Are you not well?'
The policeman had put his smile back on, a horrible
slash across his face. Karsten hadn't heard him coming. He
straightened up slowly, very slowly, he was dizzy and held
on to the worktop.
'No, not at all. Just thirsty. Just been out jogging.'
'You keep fit then.'
'Yes. Is there anything I can . . . Do you have any more

questions?'
'You seem a bit tense, to tell you the truth.'
The policeman had crossed his arms. His eyes were a
camera again. Clicking round the room. The high cupboards.
The coffee filter. The carving knife. Evidence against him.
'No, not really,' said Karsten Asli. 'I'm just a bit tired. I
was out for an hour and a half.'
'Impressive. I ride, myself. Got my own horse. If I lived
here
Stubo waved at the window.
' ... I'd have more. Do you know May Berk?'
He turned as he spoke. The policeman's profile was
dark against the light from the living room. The left eye,
the lie detector eye, was hidden. Karsten swallowed.
'May Berit who?' he asked and dried his mouth.
'Benonisen. She was called Sasther before.'
'Can't remember, I'm afraid.'
The thirst would not go away. His mouth felt like it was
full of fungus; his saliva was sticky and swollen and got in
the way of the words he wanted to say.
'You've got a very short memory,' said the man, without
turning to face him. 'You must have had a lot of girlfriends.'
'A few.'
One word at a time. A. Few. He could manage that.
'Have you got any children, Asli?'
His tongue loosened. His pulse slowed. He could feel it,
hear it, he heard his own heart beating at a steadily slower
rate against his breastbone. His breathing was easier, thanks
to his larynx opening, and he smiled broadly as he heard
himself say:
'Yes.'
This man was no worse than the others. He was just
as bad. He was one of them. Policeman Stubo stood
there making himself look important while the child he
was looking for was only fifteen metres away, maybe ten.
The guy had no idea. He probably just went from place
to place, from house to house, asking the same stupid
questions, making himself look important, without
knowing anything. What they called routine. In reality, it
was just a way to make time pass. There must be lots of
people on the list that he no doubt had in his inner
pocket; the man was constantly feeling his chest under
the jacket, as if he was considering whether to show him
something.
He was just like all the others.
Karsten could see men and women, young and old, in
his features. His nose, straight and quite big, reminded him
of an old teacher who had amused himself by locking Asli
in a cupboard with medical bowls and bags of peas until all the dust made him lose his breath and cry to get out.
Stubo's hair was brushed back, diagonally over his head,
just like his old scout leader, the man who took away all
Karsten's badges because he thought the boy had cheated.
He could see women, lots of women in Stubo's mouth. Full
lips, pink and plump. Girls. Women. Cunts. His eyes were
blue like his grandmother's.
'I've got a son,' said Karsten, and poured himself some
coffee.
His hands were steady now; solid fists with hard skin.
Karsten felt strong. He ran his finger down the carving
knife handle; the blade itself was in a wooden block to protect
the edge.
'He's abroad at the moment, with his mother. On holiday.'
'Aha.
Are you married?'
Karsten Asli shrugged and lifted the cup to his mouth.
The bitter taste did him good. The fungus disappeared.
His tongue felt thin again. Sharp.
'No, no. We're not even partners any more. You

know
He gave a short laugh.
Stubo's mobile phone rang.
The conversation didn't last long. The policeman shut
his phone with a snap. 'I have to go,' he said curtly.
Karsten followed him out. Evidence of a light shower
clung to the grass; it would be cold again tonight. Might
even fall below freezing, the breeze had an edge to it that
meant it could freeze, at least up here on the hillside. Early
summer scents teased his nose. Karsten breathed in deeply.
'I can't really say it was nice to meet you,' he smiled,
'but I hope you have a good trip back to town.'
Stubo opened the car door and then turned towards him.
'I'd like to talk to you again in town,' he said.
'In town? You mean Oslo?'
'Yes. As soon as possible.'
Karsten thought about it. He was still carrying his coffee
cup- He looked into it, as if he was astonished there was
nothing left. Then he raised his eyes and looked straight at
Stubo and said:
'Can't make it this week. Maybe at the start of next
week. Can't promise you anything. Have you got a card or
something? Then I can call you.'
Stubo's eyes did not leave his face. Karsten didn't blink.
A confused fly buzzed between them. A plane could be
heard far above the clouds. The fly ascended to the skies.
'I'll be in touch,' Stubo said finally. 'You can be sure of
that.'
The dark-blue Volvo bumped out of the open gate and
rolled slowly down the hill. Karsten Asli watched until it
reached the small woods where he knew the road forked.
He couldn't remember the last time the valley had looked
so beautiful, so clean.
It was his. This was his place. Through a break in the
clouds he could see the vapour trail from the plane heading
north.
He went inside.

Adam Stubo stopped the car as soon as he thought he was
out of sight. He gripped the steering wheel with white
knuckles. The feeling that the child was nearby had been
so strong, so overwhelming, that it was only his twenty-five
years' experience that stopped him from ripping the place
apart. There were no provisions that would allow that. He
had nothing.
Nothing more than a feeling. There wasn't a judge in
Norway who would give him a search warrant on the basis
of a hunch.
'Think,' he hissed to himself. 'Think, for Christ's sake.'
It took him less than eighty minutes to get back to Oslo.
He stopped outside the block of flats where Lena Baardsen
lived It was the evening of Monday 5 June and it was
already half past eight. He was scared that time was running
out.

54



Aksel Seier stood in front of the old, flecked mirror in
the living room. He ran his hand through his hair. It
smelt of oranges. His fringe was gone and the hair at the
base of his neck was soft and bristly when he rubbed it the
wrong way. Mrs Davis thought that for once he should look
like he came from a civilised part of the world. After all, he
was embarking on a long journey to a country where people
might think Americans were barbarians, for all she knew.
They often did, the Europeans. She had read that in the National Enquirer. He had to show them he was a well-to-do
man. His shaggy grey locks were fine here in Harwichport,
but now he was going to another world. She had cut him
badly on the ear, but otherwise his hair looked even
enough. Short all over. The orange pomade had been left
behind by one of her six sons-in-law. It was supposed to be
good for your scalp. Aksel didn't like the smell of citrus. He
wasn't leaving for another day and decided to wash it out
before he took the bus to Logan International Airport in
Boston. Matt Delaware had offered to drive him to the bus
stop in Barnstable. And so he should, the boy had got both
his pick-up and his boat for a good price.
The property in Ocean Avenue had, on the other hand,
been sold for 1.2 million dollars.
As it stood.
It had only taken him an hour to sort out what he wanted
to take with him. The glass soldiers that he'd taken four
winters to make would go to Mrs Davis. The risk that they
would break during the trip over the ocean was considerable.
She was moved to tears and promised that none of her
grandchildren would be allowed to play with them. She
would love the cat like her own, she exclaimed in a loud
voice. Matt bowed and scraped the ground with his foot
when Aksel offered him the chess table and the large tapestry
over the sofa. On the condition that he sent the
galleon figurehead over to Aksel as soon as he had an
address in Norway.
The figurehead looked like Eva. There wasn't really
much more that was worth bothering about.
Aksel didn't like his new hairstyle. It made him look
older. His face was more visible. The wrinkles, the pores
and the bad teeth that he should have done something
about long ago, they somehow seemed clearer when his
fringe had gone and his face was naked and unprotected.
He tried to hide behind a pair of old glasses with brown
frames. But the lenses were not the right strength any more
and made him feel dizzy.
He had been to the bank. The money for the house
came to about ten million kroner. Cheryl, who had grown
up in Harwichport and started work at the bank a couple of
months ago, had given him a big smile and whispered, You
lucky son of a gun, before explaining to him that the buyer
would pay the outstanding amount in instalments over the
next six weeks. Aksel would have to contact a bank in
Norway, open an account, and then everything should be
fine and the authorities couldn't make a fuss. It'll be just
fine, she assured him, and laughed again.
Ten million kroner.
To Aksel, the figure was astronomical. He tried to
ground himself by remembering that it was ages since he
knew what a krone was actually worth, and Norway was an
expensive country, after all. At least that was what he had
understood from the odd article he came across about his
homeland. But over a million dollars was over a million dollars
wherever you were in the world. He could even get a
place in Beacon Hill in Boston for that amount. And Oslo
couldn't be more expensive than Beacon Hill.
Mrs Davis had gone to Hyannis with him to buy clothes.
There was no way round it. Aksel Seier didn't quite trust
her taste - the checked trousers from K-mart were particularly
awful. Mrs Davis said that checked trousers and
pastels made him look rich, and he was, so that was that.
When he mumbled something about Cape Cod Mall, she
rolled her eyes and claimed that the shops there fleeced
you before you'd even set foot in the door. What you couldn't
buy in K-mart wasn't worth buying. So now he had a
suitcase full of new clothes he didn't like. Mrs Davis had
confiscated his old flannel shirts and jeans; she was going to
wash them before giving them to the Salvation Army.
He must remember to phone Patrick.
Aksel took a step back from the mirror. The way the
light fell, slanting from the window, he found it difficult to
recognise himself in the flecked mirror. It wasn't just his
hair that was different. He tried to straighten his back.
Something in his neck and shoulders stopped him. He had
looked at the ground for too many years. Aksel's back was
bent from thousands of days toiling over heavy work, turning
away from other people, and long evenings crouched
over fine handiwork and his own thoughts.
He lifted his head again. There was a pain between his
shoulder blades. He looked thinner now. He forced himself
to stand like that. Then he stroked his hand over the brown
jacket and wondered whether he should put a tie on before
he left. Ties were respectable. Mrs Davis was certainly
right there.
If he had enough money when he'd done everything he
needed to do, he would pay for Patrick to come over. Even
though his friend earned well in the summer season, he
used most of his earnings on maintaining the carousel and
living through the long winter months when he had no real
income. Patrick had never been back to Ireland. He could
come to Oslo for a week or two and then stop over in
Dublin on the way back, if he wanted to.
Aksel suddenly realised that he was frightened. There
was still a lot to do before he left. He had to get a move on.
He'd never been on a plane, but it wasn't that that

frightened him.
Maybe Eva didn't want him to come. She hadn't actually
asked him to. Aksel Seier pulled off his new jacket and
started to pack the glass soldiers in the tissue paper that
Mrs Davis had got.
He cut his finger on a small blue splinter. It was the
remains of the general that Johanne Vik had broken. Aksel
sucked his finger. Maybe the young lady had lost interest in
him when he just disappeared.
He hadn't been so frightened since 1993, when the
nightmares about the wet-eyed policeman with the keys
had finally stopped plaguing him.

55

"H'e was completely mad,' she said. 'Quite simply
.mad.'
Lena Baardsen seemed anxious when Adam rang the
bell, even though it was not particularly late. Her eyes were
red and the bags underneath looked almost purple in her
pale face. The flat was stuffy and claustrophobic, though
she obviously tried to keep it tidy. She offered him nothing,
but sat herself with a kitchen glass of what Adam thought
was red wine. She raised her glass, as if she knew what he
was thinking, and said:
'Doctor recommended it. Two glasses before bedtime.
Better than sleeping pills he said. To be honest, neither
helps. But at least this tastes nicer.'
She drank the remainder in one go.
'Karsten is charming. Was, at least. Good at looking after
you. I was very young then. Not used to so much attention.
I just...'
Her eyelids sank.
'. . . fell in love,' she said slowly.
The smile was presumably meant to be ironic. But in
fact it was just sad, especially when she opened her eyes
again.
'When we became lovers, he changed. Obsessively jealous.
Possessive. He never hit me, but towards the end I was
terrified all the same. He ... '
She pulled her legs up and shivered, as if she was cold.
It must have been close to thirty degrees in the flat.
'I realised pretty soon that he wasn't quite normal. He
would wake up at night if I went to the loo. He'd come out
to the bathroom and watch me pee. As if he sort of
expected me to . . . run away. We didn't live together. Not
really. I had a studio flat that was too small for both of us.
He lived in a flat-share, but I don't think the people he
lived with could stand him. So he kind of moved in with
me. Without asking. He didn't bring his things with him or
anything like that, there wasn't enough room. But he just
took over, somehow. Tidied and washed and fussed around.
He's obsessive about cleaning. Was. I don't know him any
more. He was incredibly self-centred. It was me, me, me.
The whole time. I would never put up with it now. But he
was good-looking. And very attentive, to begin with at least.
And I was very young.'
She gave a feeble, apologetic smile.
'Do you ... ' said Adam and then started again. 'Did you
know anything about his family background?'
'Family?' repeated Lena Baardsen in a flat voice. 'A
mother, at least. I met her twice. Sweet, in her own way.
Unbelievably meek. Karsten could be really nasty to her.
Even though he seemed ... he actually seemed to care
about her a lot. Well, sometimes at least. The only person
he was really scared of was his grandmother. I never met
her, but Jesus, some of the things he told me . . . '
She suddenly looked surprised.
'D'you know what, I can't actually remember anything
he told me. No examples. Strange. But I do remember
clearly that he hated her. It seemed that way to me anyway.
Real hate.'
'His father?'
'Father? No ... he never mentioned his father, I don't

think. He didn't actually like talking about his past.
Childhood and all that. I got the impression that he grew up with his mother and grandmother. So it must have been his
maternal grandmother. But I'm not sure about that either.
It's so long ago. Karsten was mad. I've done everything I
can to forget the guy.'
Again she formed her lips into a shape that could resemble
a smile. Adam stared at a big photograph in the middle
of the coffee table, a photograph of Sarah in a silver frame.
Beside it were a big pink candle and a small rose in a thin
vase.
'I can't sleep,' whispered Lena. 'I'm so frightened the
candle will go out. I want it to burn always. For ever. It's
almost as if none of it is really true until the candle goes
out.'
Adam nodded almost imperceptibly.
'I know,' he said calmly. 'I know what it's like.'
'No,' she said with emotion. 'You don't know  what it's like!'
He saw something behind her ravaged face, something
in her suddenly angry features, and he knew that Lena
Baardsen would get through this. She just didn't know it
herself yet. Her daughter's death was incomprehensible
and would be for a long time. Lena Baardsen was clinging
to a grief that was pervasive, constant. She existed outside
all reality, as reality was unbearable right now. '
It would get worse. Then eventually, when the time was
right, it would be possible to live again. And then the real
grief would come. The one that never ends and that can't
be shared with anyone. The one that would allow her to
live and laugh and maybe even have more children. But
would never disappear.
'Yes,' said Adam. 'I do know how you feel.'

It was too hot. He got up and opened the door out to the
small balcony.
'Did he do it?'
Adam half turned round. Her voice was thin and tired, as
if there would soon be nothing left. He should go. Lena
Baardsen would pull through. He had all the answers he

needed.
'You remembered the date you last saw him,' he said.
'I ran away,' said Lena. 'I went to Denmark. Gave notice
on my flat while he was at work, took all my things home to
my mother and left indefinitely. He made my mother's life
hell for weeks. Then he gave up. I assume. Was it him . . .
did he kill Sarah?'
Adam balled his fists so hard that his nails were pressing

into the skin on his palms.
'I don't know,' he said sharply.
He left the balcony door open and walked towards the
hall. Halfway across the living-room floor he stopped and
studied the picture of Sarah again. The rose was dying, its
head was hanging and it needed more water.
When he got back to the car, he turned and counted
seven storeys up. Lena Baardsen was standing on the balcony
with a blanket round her shoulders. She didn't wave.
He bent his head and got into the car. The radio turned on
automatically when he put the key in the ignition. He was
well past Hovik before he registered that the programme
was about the Black Death.

More than anything, he wanted to slap her. Turid Sande
Oksoy was not a good liar. Which was presumably why she
took such pains to hide her face from her husband when
she repeated:

'I have never heard of Karsten Asli. Never.'
The terraced house in Basrum was imbued with another
kind of grief from that in the small flat in Torshov. There
were living children here. Toys were strewn over the floor
and it smelt of cooking. Both Turid and Lasse Oksoy
looked like they'd slept too little and cried too much, but in
this home time had moved on in a way. Turid Oksoy had
put on some make-up. Adam had called on his mobile to
ask if it was OK for him to drop by, even though it was getting
late. Her mascara had already caked in the corner of
her eyes. The lipstick made her mouth look too big for the
white face. She was picking absently at a small cut at the
base of her nose. It started to bleed and she started to cry.
'I swear,' she sobbed. 'You have to believe me. I've
never known anyone called Karsten.'
Adam should have talked to her alone.
It was a huge mistake to visit her at home. Lasse, her
husband, would not leave her alone, which was reasonable,
he kept his arm round her shoulders even when she turned
away from him. Adam should have waited until tomorrow
and called her into the office. Alone, without her husband.
He needed more evidence against Karsten Asli. Something
more than an instinctive certainty that the man was dangerous;
something that would give grounds for a closer
investigation. Because of his experience and reputation,
Adam might possibly get a search warrant if he could show
that Karsten Asli was the only person who had known all
the mothers involved. Particularly as he denied it himself.
He could explain that to Turid Oksoy and then force her to
confess.
She was very frightened. Adam couldn't understand
why. Her son was dead, killed by a madman whom the

woman was protecting. Adam wanted to hit her. More than
anything, he wanted to lean over the table, grab her stupid
pink sweater and slap her. He wanted to beat the truth out
of her thin body. She was ugly. Her hair was dead, her
make-up was running. Her nose was too big and her eyes
were too close together. Turid Sande Oksoy looked like a
vulture, and Adam wanted to tear off the bloody awful
made-up face and dig out the truth from the pea brain
behind.
'And you are quite sure of that?' he said calmly, and ran
his fingers through his hair.
'Yes,' she assured him, and looked up at him as she
brushed her thumb over the skin under her eyes.
'Then I apologise for disturbing you,' he said. 'I'll find
my own way out.'

'Shit, shit!'
Adam hit his fist so hard against the tree trunk that his
knuckles started to bleed. The muscles in his neck were in
knots. He was shaking; it was difficult to find the right
numbers on his mobile. He tried to take deeper breaths,
but his lungs refused. Right now he didn't know who was
more frightened, himself or Turid Sande Oksoy.
He leaned against the pine tree so he would relax a bit
more. The lights in the house he'd just left were being
switched off one by one. Eventually only a strip of dim
yellow light was visible under some blinds upstairs.
'Hello?'
'Hi.'
'Did I wake you?'
'Yes.'
He didn't apologise. Her voice helped him to breathe
more freely. It took ten minutes to tell her about the day's
events. He repeated himself here and there, but pulled
himself together and tried to stay calm. To tell the story
chronologically. To stick to the facts. Precision. At last he
was quiet. Johanne said nothing.
'Hello?'
'Yes, I'm here.' He heard her far away.
He held the phone tighter to his ear.
'Why?' he asked. 'Why is she lying?'
'Well, that's obvious,' said Johanne. 'She must have had
an affair with Karsten Asli when she was married to Lasse.
There can't be any other reason. Unless she's telling the
truth, of course. That she's actually never met the man.'
'She's lying! I know that she's lying!'
Again he thumped his fist against the coarse bark. Blood
ran down the back of his hand.
'What should I do? What the fuck should I do now?'
'Nothing. Not tonight. Go home, Adam. You need to
sleep now. You know that. Tomorrow you can try and get
Turid on her own. You can set the wheels in motion to find
out all there is to know about Karsten Asli. Maybe you'll
find something. Something that with a little creativity you
can use to get a search warrant. Tomorrow. Go home.'
'You're right,' he said abruptly. 'I'll call you tomorrow'
'Do that,' she said. 'Speak to you tomorrow.'
Then she put down the phone. He stared at his mobile
for a couple of seconds. His right hand was aching. Johanne
hadn't asked him to come. Adam sloped back to the car and
obediently drove home to Nordstrand.


56



Finally he found some food. Laffen had broken into
three places already without any luck. But in this cabin
there were tins in several cupboards. It couldn't have been
long since someone was here, as there was a forgotten loaf
in the breadbox. First he tried to scrape off the bluish-white
coating, but that didn't leave much bread, so he thoroughly
inspected the small, hard clump before popping it in his
mouth. It tasted of the dark.
There was a carefully laid pile of wood by the fireplace.
It was easy to light. He had a good view to the road from
the living-room window and he could escape through the
back window if anyone came. The heat that emanated from
the fire made him drowsy. He needed something to eat
first - a little soup perhaps, that was easiest. Then he would
sleep. It was past four in the morning and soon it would be
light. He just needed to eat a little food. And have a smoke.
There was a half-full packet of Marlboro on the mantelpiece.
He broke the filter off a cigarette, lit it and inhaled
deeply. He couldn't go to sleep before the fire had burnt
down.
Tomato soup and macaroni. Good.
There was water in the tap. Nice cabin. He'd always
wanted a cabin. A place where you could be left in peace.
Not like the flats at Rykkin, where the neighbours got
angry if he forgot to clean the stairs one Saturday. Even
though he had never let anyone into his flat, he always felt
he was being watched. Would be different in a place like
this. If he went on further, deeper into the woods, he might
find a place where he could be alone all summer. People
tended to go to the coast in summer. Then he could flee to
Sweden. In the autumn. His father had fled to Sweden
during the war. His father got medals for all that he did.
He was certainly not going to let the police catch him
again.
The cigarette tasted bloody good. Best cigarette he'd
tasted. Fresh and good. He lit up another when he'd eaten
enough. Then he took the rest out of the packet and
counted them. Eleven. He would have to save them.

The police thought he was an idiot. When he was in custody,
they talked to each other like he was deaf or something.
People usually did. They thought he couldn't hear.
The guy who had taken the children was smart. The
messages were smart. Now you've got what you deserved. The
two policemen had stood just beside him talking about it.
As if he was an idiot without ears. Laffen had learnt the text
off by heart immediately. Now you've got what you deserved. Great. Really good. Someone else was to blame. He wasn't
sure who had got what they deserved. But it was someone
else, someone who wasn't him. The guy who had taken the
children must be a brainbox.
Laffen had been taken in for questioning before.
They always treated him like shit.
What did they expect when children ran around naked
on the beach? And they showed off. Particularly the girls.
They wiggled and turned. Showing off what there was to
show off. But he was the one who got the blame, always.
The Internet was much better that way. Social services had
paid for the computer. And for him to go on courses and
such-like.
Helicopters were dangerous.
He was still too close to Oslo and he heard helicopters all
day long. As it was light until late and from early in the
morning, there were only a few hours in the middle of the
night when he could move around. He was moving too
slowly. He realised he had to get farther away. He would
steal a car. He could hotwire, it was one of the first things
he taught himself. The police thought he was stupid, but it
only took him three minutes to start a car. Not the new
ones, true enough, he would leave the ones with immobilisers.
But he could find an older model. He would drive
quite a distance. North. It was easiest to find the north. You
just had to look at the sun during the day. At night he knew
how to find the Pole Star.
He was sleepy after the food. The heat from the fire was
like a wall. He mustn't fall asleep before it had burnt down.
He wasn't worried about the danger of fire, but he had to
stay awake in case anyone turned up because they'd seen
the smoke. Alert.
'Be prepared,' Laffen mumbled, and fell asleep.

57



Karsten Asli did his best to convince himself that he had
nothing to fear.
'Routine,' he said with determination, and just about
tripped. 'Routine. Rou-ti-ne. Rou-ti-ne.'
His trainers were wet and the sweat was running down
into his eyes. He tried to dry his forehead on his sleeve, but
it was already damp from the dew on the trees that he
brushed past.
Adam Stubo had seen nothing. He had heard nothing.
He couldn't have seen anything that would arouse suspicion.
For God's sake, the guy said it himself: it was a routine
call because they had to check up on everyone who had
ever had anything to do with the families. Of course it was
routine. The police thought they already knew who they
were after. The papers wrote about little else: The Great
Man Hunt.
Karsten Asli picked up speed. He had nearly lost control.
Adam Stubo was clever. Even though he wasn't as good at
lying as Karsten had imagined the police to be, he was sly.
Turid had been terrified at the time. Terrified that Lasse
would find out. Frightened of her mother. Frightened of
her mother-in-law. Frightened of everything. When Adam
claimed that Turid had said they knew each other, he was
lying. But Karsten had still nearly lost control.
Adam Stubo should never have asked him if he had children.
Up
to that point, Karsten had felt like he was drowning.




But when Stubo asked about children, it was like having a
life raft thrown to him. The seas calmed down. Land was in

sight.
The child. The boy. He would be three on 19 June. The
day on which his plan would be completed. Nothing is random in this world.
The stream was big now, swollen by spring, nearly a

small river.
He stopped and gasped for breath. He took off his rucksack
and took out the box of potassium. He had filled a small plastic bag beforehand with only a few grams, which
was more than enough for the last assignment. He'd done it
outdoors, of course, Karsten Asli knew perfectly well that
even a millimole of the stuff could undo him. Not that the
police would check for it, but Karsten operated within
safety margins. All the way. He had never opened the tub
indoors.
The powder dissolved in the water. Milk water. It ran
downstream and the solution became weaker, more diluted
and transparent. Eventually, one and a half metres from
where he stood, there was nothing left. He carefully broke
the box up against a stone. Then he lit a small fire. He had
dry wood shavings in his bag. The cardboard box didn't
burn very well, but when he tore a whole newspaper to
shreds and put it on the fire, it finally took hold. When it
had burnt down, he stamped on the ashes.
He'd bought the potassium in Germany, over seven
months ago. Just to be on the safe side, he'd grown a full
beard for three weeks before going into the chemist on the
outskirts of Hamburg. He shaved off his beard the same
evening, in a cheap motel, before driving to Kiel to get the
ferry home.
Now the potassium was gone. Apart from what he
needed on 19 June.
Karsten Asli felt relieved. It only took a quarter of an
hour to jog home.
As he stood on the step stretching, he realised that he
hadn't seen Emilie for several days now. Yesterday, before
Stubo turned up, he had decided to give her her last meal.
She had to go. But he hadn't decided how yet. After
Stubo's visit he would have to be even more careful than
planned. Emilie would have to wait. A few days, at least.
She had water down there and didn't eat anything anyway.
There was no need to go down into the cellar.
No need at all. He smiled and got ready for work.

The man had disappeared. He no longer existed.
She was thirsty all the time. There was water in the tap.
She tried to get up. Her legs were so thin now. She tried to
walk. She couldn't, even when she used the wall to support
herself.
The man had disappeared. Maybe Daddy had killed
him. Daddy must have found him and cut him up into
small pieces. But Daddy didn't know she was here. He
would never find her.
Her thirst was raging. Emilie crawled to the sink.
Then she leaned up against the wall and turned on the
water. The underpants fell to her ankles. They were
boy's pants, even though the fly had been sewn up. She
drank.
Her clothes were still lying folded beside the bed. She
staggered back, just managing to walk now. The underpants
were left lying by the sink. Her stomach was a big
hole that no longer felt hunger. She would put her clothes

on again afterwards. They were her own clothes and she
wanted to have them on. But first she had to sleep.
It was best to sleep.
Daddy had cut up the man and thrown the pieces into
the sea.
She was still very thirsty.
Maybe Daddy was dead as well. He hadn't come yet.

58



The first thing that struck Johanne was that he somehow
seemed superfluous.
After the first polite introductory words, this feeling was
overwhelming. Geir Kongsbakken had no charisma, no
charm. Although she had never met either his father or his
brother, Johanne had the distinct impression that they were
both people who captivated everyone they met, for better
or worse. Asbjorn Revheim had been an arrogant agitator, a
great artist, a persuasive and extreme person even in his
own suicide. Astor Kongsbakken's life was still embellished
with anecdotes of passion and inventiveness. Geir, the
oldest son, was the sole proprietor of a small law firm in
0vre Slottsgate that Johanne had never heard of. The walls
were panelled, the bookcases heavy and brown. The man
sitting behind the oversized table was heavy as well, but
not fat. He seemed formless and uninteresting. Not much
hair. White shirt. Boring glasses. Monotone voice. It was as
if the entire man was composed of parts that no one else in
the family wanted.
'And what can I help you with, madam?' he said, and
smiled.
'I...'
Johanne coughed and started again:
'Do you remember the Hedvig case, Mr Kongsbakken?'
He thought about it, his eyes half closed.
'No ... '
He paused.
'Should I? Can you give me a bit more information?'
'The Hedvig case,' she repeated, 'from 1956.'
He still looked a bit confused. That was odd. When she
had mentioned the case to her mother, in passing, without
saying anything about what she was doing, Johanne had
been surprised by her mother's detailed memory of little
Hedvig's murder.
'Ah, yes.'
He lifted his chin a fraction.
'Terrible case. The one with the little girl who was raped
and killed and later found in a . . . sack? Is that right?'
'That's right.'
'Yes. I do remember. I was quite young at the time . . .
1956, you said? I was only eighteen then. And you don't
read the papers much at that age.'
He smiled, as if he was apologising for his lack of interest.
'Maybe not,' said Johanne. 'Depends. But I thought you
might remember it very well as your father was the prosecutor.'
'Listen,'
said Geir Kongsbakken, stroking the crown of
his head. 'I was eighteen in 1956. I was in my last year at
school. I was interested in completely different things, not
my father's work. And we didn't have a particularly close
relationship, to tell the truth. Not that it's anything to do
with you, really. What is it you're after?'
He glanced at his watch.
"I'll cut to the chase,' said Johanne, fast. 'I have reason to
believe that your brother. . . '
To go straight to the heart of the matter was not as easy
as she had thought. She crossed her legs and started again.
'I have reason to believe that Asbjorn Revheim was
somehow involved with Hedvig's death.'

Three deep lines appeared on Geir Kongsbakken's forehead.
Johanne studied his face. Even with that look of
astonishment it was strangely neutral, and she doubted
whether she would recognise him on the street if she were
to meet him later.
'Asbjorn?' he said, and straightened his tie. 'Where on
earth did you get that idea? In 1956? Good Lord, he was
only . . . sixteen at the time! Sixteen! And in any case,
Asbjorn would never
'Do you remember Anders Mohaug?' she interrupted.
'Of course I remember Anders,' he replied, obviously
irritated. 'The simpleton. Not exactly politically correct to
use expressions like that today, but that's what we called
him. Back then. Of course I remember Anders. He used to
tag along with my brother for a while. Why do you ask?'
'Anders's mother, Agnes Mohaug, went to the police in
1965. Just after Anders had died. I don't know anything
.more, but she believed that the boy had murdered Hedvig
in 1956. She had protected her son ever since, but now she
wanted to salve her conscience as he could no longer be
punished.'
Geir Kongsbakken looked genuinely confused. He
undid the top button of his shirt and leaned forward over
the desk.
'I see,' he said slowly. 'But what has this information got
to do with my brother? Did Mrs Mohaug say that my
brother was involved?'
'No. Not exactly. Not as far as I know. In fact I know
very little about what she actually said and
He snorted and shook his head violently and exclaimed:
'Are you aware of what you're doing? The accusations
you are making are libellous and . . . '

'I'm not accusing anyone of anything,' said Johanne
calmly. 'I've come here with some questions and to ask for
your help. As I made an appointment in the normal way, I
am of course prepared to pay for your time.'
'Pay? You want to pay me for coming here and making
accusations about a person in my immediate family, who is
in fact dead and therefore unable to defend himself? Pay!'
'Wouldn't it be better if you just listened to what I have
to say first?' ventured Johanne.
'I've heard more than enough, thank you!'
Some white rings had appeared around his nostrils. He
was still snorting in agitation. And yet she had aroused
some kind of curiosity in the man. She could see it in his
eyes, which were on guard now, sharper than when she
came and he asked her to sit down without really noticing
her.
'Anders Mohaug was hardly capable of doing anything
on his own,' she said with determination. 'From what I've
heard about the boy, he had problems getting to Oslo on his
own, without help. You know perfectly well that he was
duped into getting involved in a number of. . . unfortunate
situations. By your brother.'
'Unfortunate situations? Are you aware of what you're
saying?'
A fine shower of spit fell on to the desk.
'Asbjorn was kind to Anders. Kind! Everyone else
avoided the oaf like the plague. Asbjorn was the only one
who did anything with him.'
'Like executing a cat in protest against the royal family?'
Geir Kongsbakken rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.
'Cat. A cat! Of course it wasn't acceptable to abuse the
poor animal, but he was arrested and fined. Got his fair

dues. After that episode, Asbjorn never harmed anyone.
Not even a cat. Asbjorn was a . . . '
It was as if all the air went out of the grey lawyer. He
seemed to deflate, and Johanne could have sworn his eyes
were wet.
'No doubt it's hard to understand,' he said, and got up
stiffly. 'But I loved my brother dearly.'
He was standing by the bookcase. He ran his hands over
six leather-bound books.
'I have never read any of his books,' said Geir
Kongsbakken quietly, it was too painful, everything. The
way people talked about him. But I have had these first
editions bound. They're rather beautiful, aren't they?
Beautiful on the outside, and from what I understand, disgusting
on the inside.'
i wouldn't say that,' said Johanne. 'They meant a lot to
me when I read them. Particularly Fever Chill. Even though
he broke every boundary and . . . '
'Asbjorn was loyal to his beliefs,' Geir Kongsbakken
interrupted.
It was as if he was talking to himself. He had one of the
books in his hands. It was big and heavy. Johanne guessed
it was Sunken City, Rising Ocean. The gold leaf glinted in the
light from the ceiling lamp. The leather binding was dark,
almost like polished wood.
'The problem was that he had nothing left to believe in,
in the end,' he said. 'There was nothing left to be loyal to.
And then he couldn't bear it any more. But until. . . '
He nearly sobbed and then straightened his back.
'Asbjorn would never harm another person. Not physically.
Never. Not as a sixteen-year-old nor later. I can
guarantee you that.'

He had turned towards her. His chin was jutting out. He
stared her in the eye and held his right hand down flat on
the book, as if he was swearing on the Bible.
How well we know those closest to us, thought Johanne.
You're telling the truth. You know that he wouldn't hurt
anyone. Because you loved him. Because he was your only
brother. You think you know. You know that you know. But
I don't know. I didn't know him. I've only read what he
wrote. We're all more than one person. Asbjorn could have
been a murderer, but you would never see it.
'I'd like to talk to your father,' she said.
Geir Kongsbakken put the book back in its place on the
shelf.
'Please do,' he said with no interest. 'But then you'll
have to go to Corsica. I doubt that he'll ever come back
here again. He's not very well at the moment.'
i phoned him yesterday.'
'Phoned him? About this nonsense? Do you know how
old he is?'
The white rings started to appear around the base of his
nostrils again.
i said nothing about Asbjorn,' she said quickly, i barely
had the chance to say anything, in fact. He got angry.
Furious, to tell the truth.'
'Understandable enough,' mumbled Geir Kongsbakken,
and looked at his watch again.
Johanne noticed that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring.
Nor were there any photographs in the brown office. The
room was devoid of personal connections, other than to his
dead brother, an author who had been beautifully preserved
in expensively bound books that had never been
read.

i thought maybe you could talk to him,' said Johanne.
'Explain to him that I'm not out to get anyone. I just want
to know what actually happened.'
'What do you mean, what actually happened?. As far as I
recall, a man was sentenced for the murder of Hedvig.
Tried by jury! It should be fairly obvious what happened.
The man was guilty.'
i don't think he was,' said Johanne. 'And if I could use
the last ten minutes of my half-hour appointment to
explain why I . . . '
'You do not have ten minutes,' he said firmly, i consider
this conversation closed. You may go.'
He picked up a folder and started to read, as if Johanne
had already disappeared.
'An innocent man was jailed,' she said. 'His name is
Aksel Seier and he lost everything. If nothing else, that
should concern you, as a lawyer. As a representative of the
law.'
Without looking up from his papers, he said:
'Your speculations could do untold damage. Please
leave.'
'Who can I damage? Asbjorn is dead. Has been for seventeen
years!'
'Go.'
Johanne had no recourse but to do as he said. Without
saying another word, she got up and walked towards the
door.
'Don't bother paying,' said Geir Kongsbakken, harshly.
'And don't ever come back.'

A warm wind blew over Oslo. Johanne stood outside Geir
Kongsbakken's office and hesitated before deciding to walk
to work. She took off her suit jacket and noticed that she
was sweating under the arms.
This case should have been cleared up ages ago. It was
too late now. She sank into despondency. Somebody should
have cleared Aksel Seier's name while it was still possible.
While those involved were still alive. While people still
remembered. Now she was just banging her head against a
brick wall wherever she went.
She was sick of the whole case. And at the end of the
day, Aksel Seier himself had turned his back on her. She
felt a stabbing pain in her chest when she thought of
Alvhild Sofienberg, but she quickly repressed the pang of bad conscience. Johanne had no obligations to either Aksel

or Alvhild.
She had done enough; more than anyone could expect.


59



And this is all we've got,' said Adam Stubo despondently.
'Yep.'
Sigmund Berli sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
'Not a lot, I'm afraid. Clean record. If he was ever
reported for anything it was a long time ago. He has no
exams from the University of Oslo or anywhere else in
Norway, so he must have got that education he was boasting
about abroad.'
'No completed studies. She was right.'
'Who?'
'Forget it.'
Sigmund sniffed again and dug around in the tight
pocket of his jeans for a Kleenex.
'Got a cold,' he mumbled. 'Really stuffed up. Karsten
Asli has moved around a lot, I'll tell you that. Not surprising
that he can't be bothered to notify the authorities of a
change of address any more. A bit of a vagabond, that man.
Oh, he's got a taxi licence. For Oslo. If you can call that a
qualification.'
'Hardly. What's this?'
Adam pointed at a Post-it.
'What?'
Sigmund leaned over the table.
'Oh, that. He learnt to drive an ambulance a few years
ago. You said include everything.'
'And what about the son?'
Adam was struggling to get the cellophane off a new cigar.
'Working on it. But why should we doubt that the guy's
telling the truth about that? Is there any reason why he
might lie about having a son?'
Adam let the cigar slip gently into the silver cylinder and
put it back in his breast pocket.
i don't think he's lying,' he said, i just want to know
how much contact he actually has with the boy. His home
certainly didn't look like he had a child there regularly.
What about Tromso? Was he there?'
Sigmund Berli looked at the light balsa box.
'Help yourself,' Adam nodded.
'The best thing would be to ask Karsten Asli about that!
I've checked all the lists and he wasn't on any of the flights
in the relevant timeframe. Not under his own name at least.
I've got hold of a copy of his passport photo and sent it to
Tromso. So we'll have to wait and see what the professor
says. Probably nothing. He's adamant that he didn't see the
face well enough. This investigation
He made irritated quote marks in the air before helping

himself.
' ... is not made any easier by the fact that Karsten Asli
is not supposed to notice anything. Couldn't we just pull
him in for normal questioning? Jesus, we do that with every
Tom, Dick and Harry without--'
'Karsten Asli is neither Tom nor Dick, nor Harry for that
matter,' Adam broke in. if I'm not wrong, he's holding a
child hostage somewhere. I don't want the man to get even
the slightest inkling that we're on to him.'
Sigmund Berli held the cigar under his nose.
'But, Adam,' he said, without looking the detective
inspector in the eye.

'Yes?'
'Was there anything else there, anything other than . ..
this ... Was there anything more concrete, like, more than ...'
'No. Just a hunch. Just a very strong hunch.'
There was silence in the room. Quick steps could be
heard in the corridor and a telephone was ringing somewhere.
Someone answered it. A woman laughed outside
the door. Adam stared at Sigmund's cigar, which was still
suspended between his nose and upper lip.
intuition is nothing more than the subconscious reworking
of known facts,' he said, before he remembered where
he'd heard it.
He leaned over the table.
'The man was terrified,' Adam said bitterly. 'He was
shocked when I turned up. I was so ... '
He held his index finger and thumb one centimetre
from each other.
' . . . so close to getting him to break down. Then something
happened, I'm not quite sure what, but he ... '
He slowly sat back in the chair.
'He somehow got a hold of himself again. I don't know
how or why. I just know that he behaved in a way that. . .
Shit, Sigmund! You . . . of all people in this building should
trust my instincts! The child is up there! Karsten Asli is
holding Emilie hostage and we're pissing around with helicopters
and God knows how many people and cars looking
for a retard in the woods!'
Sigmund smiled, almost shyly.
'But you can't be sure,' he said. 'You have to admit it.
You can't be completely certain. It's not possible.'

'No,' said Adam finally. 'Of course, I can't be completely
certain. But find out more about this son. Please.'
Sigmund gave a quick nod and left. He left his cigar
behind. Adam picked it up and studied it. Then he threw it
in the wastepaper basket and remembered that he had to
phone the plumber in Lillestrom. No need for Cato Sylling
to make an unnecessary trip to Oslo.
Turid Sande Oksoy had still not got back to him. He had
called three times and left a message on the answering
machine.


60



Aksel Seier was sitting in the Theatercafe, staring at a
beautiful open sandwich that the waiter had put on the
table in front of him. He'd completely forgotten that smor-brodwas an open sandwich and he wasn't sure how to eat it. He surreptitiously glanced around. An elderly woman at
the next table was using her knife and fork, even though
her smorbrod was not as high as his. He hesitated before
picking up his cutlery. The tomato fell on to the plate. He
carefully removed the lettuce leaf from under the pate.
Aksel Seier didn't like lettuce. The smorbrod\vas delicious.
And the beer. He drank it greedily and ordered another
glass.
'With pleasure,' said the waiter.
Aksel Seier tried to relax. He felt in his breast pocket.
He had used a credit card twice now. It was fine. He had
never possessed a plastic card in his life. Cheryl at the bank
had insisted. Visa and American Express. Then he would
be safe, she said. She must know what she was talking
about. His Visa card was silver. Platinum, Cheryl whispered. You're rich, you know! Normally it would take over a
week to get everything sorted, but she had managed in less
than two days.
Everything had happened so quickly.
He felt dizzy. But then he hadn't slept for a day and a
half. The flight had been fine, but the throbbing of the
engine made it impossible to sleep. For a while at Keflavik,
he thought they had arrived. When he started to look for his
luggage, a nice lady in uniform had kindly guided him to
the next plane. He looked at the watch that Mrs Davis had
chosen in Hyannis. Slowly he counted back six hours. It
was nine o'clock in the morning in Cape Cod. The sun
would be high over the sound to Nantucket Island and it
was low tide. If the weather was good, you'd be able to see
Monomoy stretching along the horizon to the south-west. A
good day for fishing. Maybe Matt Delaware was already out
in his boat.
'Anything else, sir?'
Aksel shook his head. He fumbled for his credit card,
but when he finally managed to get his wallet out of his
pocket, the waiter had disappeared. He would no doubt
come back.
He had to try to relax.
No one was looking at him. No one recognised him.
That was what he had been most afraid of. That someone
would realise who he was. He'd regretted coming back
the moment he landed at Gardemoen and, more than anything
else, he wanted to get on the next flight back. Cancel
the sale. Move home again and take back his boat, cat and
glass soldiers. Everything would be just as before. He had
a good life. Safe, at least, especially once the nightmares
stopped suddenly one night in March 1993.
Norway had changed.
People spoke differently as well. The youths sitting in
front of him on the bus into Oslo spoke a language he
barely understood. Everything would be fine once he was
installed in the Continental. Aksel Seier could only remember
the names of two good hotels in Oslo, the Grand and
the Continental. The latter sounded better than the first. It
was no doubt expensive, but he had money and a platinum

card. When he put his American passport on the counter,
the lady spoke English to him. She smiled when he
answered in Norwegian. She was friendly. Everyone was
friendly and the waiter here in the Theatercafe spoke the
Norwegian that Aksel could remember and understand.
'Are you passing through?' asked the thin man, and put
the bill on the table.
'Yes. No. Passing through.'
'Perhaps you are staying at the hotel,' said the waiter and
took the card, i hope you have a pleasant stay. We really are
heading towards summer now. Lovely'
Aksel Seier wanted to go back to his room and sleep for
a couple of hours. He had to get used to being here. Then
he would go for a walk in town. In the evening. He wanted
to see how much he could remember. He wanted to get a
feel for Norway. See if Norway recognised him. Aksel
didn't think so. It was a long time ago. He would contact
Eva tomorrow. But not until tomorrow. He wanted to be
well rested when he met her. He knew that she was ill and
was prepared for anything.
Before he went to sleep, he would phone Johanne Vik.
After all, it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. She was
probably still at work. Maybe she was still angry with him
for just disappearing. Especially as she'd come all the way
to the USA to meet him. But she had left her card, both in
the post box and pinned to the door.
She must still be interested in having a chat, at least.


61



Johanne had a strange feeling that it was already Friday.
When she left the office at two o'clock under the half
pretence that she was going to the bookshop, she had to tell
herself more than once that it was still only Wednesday 7
June. At Nodi's bookshop she picked up a paperback copy
of The Fall of Man, the Fourteenth of November, the last of
Asbjorn Revheim's six novels. Johanne thought she had
read it before but, having read the first thirty pages, she
realised that she must have been wrong. The book was a
kind of futuristic novel, and she wasn't sure if she actually
liked it or not.
It was nearly time for the news. She turned on the TV.
Laffen Sornes had been spotted on a main road north-east of Oslo. He was on foot. The descriptions from three separate
witnesses were identical, down to the smallest detail, from his
camouflage clothes to the arm in plaster. Before anyone managed
to apprehend him, the fugitive had vanished into the
woods again. The police were being assisted by two Finnish
bear hunters. TV2 had helicopters in the area, whereas NRK,
for the time being, were complying with the police's request
to stay on the ground. But they had five different teams there,
none of whom really had anything to say.
Johanne shuddered as she zapped between the two
channels.
The telephone rang. She managed to turn down the
volume on the TV before lifting the receiver. The voice at
the other end was unknown.

'Am I talking to Johanne Vik?'
'Yes
'I'm sorry to disturb you in the evening. My name is
Unni Kongsbakken.'
i see.'
Johanne swallowed and switched the receiver from her
left to her right hand.
i believe you talked to my husband on Monday. Is that
right?'
'Yes, I . . . '
'Astor died this morning,' said the voice.
Johanne tried to turn off the TV, but hit the volume
button instead. A presenter shouted that the nine o'clock
news would be entirely dedicated to the Great Man Hunt.
Johanne finally managed to get the right button and everything
went quiet.
i'm sorry,' she stuttered. 'My con . . . condolences.'
'Thank you,' said the voice, i'm ringing because I
would very much like to meet you.'
Unni Kongsbakken's voice was remarkably calm, bearing
in mind that she had been widowed only a few hours
earlier.
'Meet me . . . Yes. What. . . of course.'

'My husband was very agitated by your phone call. And
my son phoned yesterday and said that you'd been to his
office. Astor . . . well, he died early this morning.'
i really do apologise if . . . I mean, it was never my
intention to ... '
it wasn't a dramatic death, Mrs Vik. Don't upset yourself.
Astor was ninety-two and his health was quite frail.'
'Yes, but. . . but I . . . '
Johanne really had no idea what to say.

i'm no spring chicken myself,' said Unni Kongsbakken.
'And tomorrow I'm coming home with my husband. He
wanted to be buried in Norway. I would be very grateful if
you could take the time to meet me for a chat tomorrow
afternoon. The plane lands around midday. Would it be
possible to meet at say three . . . ?'
'But... surely it can wait! Until after the funeral, at least.'
'No. This has been long enough in the waiting. Please,
Mrs Vik.'
'Johanne,' mumbled Johanne.
'Three o'clock then. At the Grand Hotel? Is that all
right? You are generally left in peace there.'
'Fine. Three o'clock at the Grand Cafe.'
'Speak to you tomorrow. Goodbye.'
The old lady put down the phone before Johanne managed
to answer. She remained sitting with the receiver in
her hand for a long time. It wasn't easy to know what made
her breathe so fast and shallow, guilt or curiosity.
What on earth do you want with me? she thought to herself,
and put the receiver down again. What has been long
enough in the waiting?
She felt the colour rising to her cheeks.
I have killed Astor Kongsbakken!

Adam Stubo sat alone in his office and read the email for a
second time. May Berit Benonisen had given the police in
Tromso no information other than that she had once known
Karsten Asli, rather superficially, as she had already told
them. The email was short and to the point. The officer
had obviously not understood the importance of Adam's
request. May Berit Benonisen had been questioned over
the telephone.


Tonnes Selbu had never heard of Karsten Asli.
Grete Harborg was dead.
Turid Sande Oksoy was incommunicado. When Adam
finally managed to get through to the family in the afternoon,
Turid had gone to their cabin. There was no phone
there. In Telemark, said Lasse, curt and unhelpful. He
asked to be left in peace until the police had managed to
find some concrete evidence.
Sigmund Berli had still found nothing more about Asli's
son. Adam suspected that he wasn't giving the job his all.
Even though Sigmund was the person who was closest to
him at work, it felt as if he was slipping away too.
Everything had changed after the accident. It was as
though by losing Elizabeth and Trine he had been branded;
a stigma that made other people embarrassed. Everyone
went quiet at the lunch table when he sat down. It was
months before anyone dared laugh in his presence. In a
way, he was still respected, but his intuition, which was legendary
and admired before, was now just a quirk of a tired
and unhappy man.
Adam was not unhappy.
He lit a cigar and reflected on it.
i'm not unhappy,' he said half out loud, and blew a
cloud of smoke out into the room.
The cigar was too dry, so he stubbed it out in irritation.
If he hadn't got enough evidence against Karsten Asli to
be granted a search warrant by the end of the working day
tomorrow, he considered just going without any legal
recourse. Emilie was there. He was certain. He might be
sacked, but he could save the girl.
Less than a day to go, he thought as he left the office.
That's all I dare to wait.
62
63

They recognised each other straight away.
A generation had grown to adulthood since she
stood on the quay and waved goodbye. As the MS Sandefjord pulled away, he had tried to follow her with his
eyes when she tightened her shawl around her and started
to push her bike out to the end of the quay. The wind
caught the hem of her skirt. The bike was newly painted
and red. She was slim and had blue eyes.
Now Eva was bedridden and had been for eleven years.
Her lifeless arms lay alongside her body. She slowly
raised her right hand and reached out towards him when he
came into the room. In a letter she'd said that God in his
mercy had allowed her to keep the use of her right hand. So
she could continue to write letters. Her legs were paralysed
and her left arm was useless.
'Aksel,' she said quietly and easily, as if she'd been
expecting him. 'My Aksel.'
He pulled a chair up to the bed. Then he shyly stroked
her shorn head with his hand and tried to smile. Her fingers
were cold when they brushed his cheek. They used to be
warm - dry, playful and warm. But it was still the same
hand; he recognised it and started to cry.
'Aksel,' Eva said again. 'To think that you came.'


Karsten Asli had not slept well since Monday. During
the day it was easy to convince himself that there was
nothing to worry about. After all, Adam Stubo hadn't come
back. Everything seemed to be normal in the village. No
one had made enquiries down there.
It was worse at night. Even though he now ran long and
hard every evening to wear himself out, he lay awake tossing
and turning until the morning. This morning he had rung in
sick. He regretted it now. It was worse just being stuck
around the house. He had nothing to do. His plan of action for
19 June was ready. There was nothing left to do, except do it.
He could paint the west wall.
But he couldn't go down to the village for paint, as someone
from Saga might see him. It would be better to drive
over to Elverum. If he bumped into anyone there, he could
say that he'd been to see the doctor.
That was actually a good idea. He felt calmer when he
got in the car.

Laffen Sornes finally found a car he could steal. A Mazda
323, 1987 model. Someone had just left it half stuck in a
ditch, by the side of a forest track. The doors had even
been left open. Laffen smiled. There was petrol in the
tank. The engine spluttered a bit, but started after a while.
Thankfully it was easy to get back on to the road. A hundred
metres farther into the woods there was a small
turn-off; he just had to turn.
It would be best to get to Sweden straight away.
There were helicopters everywhere. Laffen had been
moving slowly on foot, protected by the trees. He'd really
only wanted to move around in the few hours when it was
dark in the middle of the night, but he hadn't got far
enough and had to use the days as well. Twice people had
seen him, when he was stupid enough to follow the road for
a while. He was tired and it was easier to walk on the even
asphalt. He ran back into the woods again and the helicopters
came back. He had to avoid open spaces. Sometimes
he lost his sense of direction and had to rest for a long time.
It would be safer in a car, but it was still important to get
as far away as possible.
Sweden lay to the east. As the sun was shining it was
easy to tell which direction he had to go in.
There was a Sputnik cassette in the stereo. Laffen sang
along. Soon he turned out on to a bigger road. He was
calmer now. It was good to be sitting behind the wheel.
The last time they'd broken his arm. This time they would
surely kill him. If he didn't manage to get to Sweden first.
And he would. It couldn't be that far now. A couple of
hours, perhaps. Max. The last time he was in Sweden he
ate Janssons fristelse in a roadside cafe. It was some of the
best food he had tasted.
Cigarettes were cheap there too. Cheaper than in
Norway, at least.
He accelerated.

Karsten Asli concentrated on not driving too fast. It was
important not to attract attention. Five to six kilometres per
hour over the speed limit was probably best. Most normal.
He regretted the whole idea of the trip.
Bobben had undoubtedly seen him passing the garage.
He waved eagerly even though Karsten pretended not to
see him. It was highly unlikely that Bobben would mention
it to anyone from Saga, but Karsten was still not happy
about it. After a written warning for theft, it wouldn't take
much to get him fired. To call in sick and then go to
Elverum shopping was not very clever. He could of course
use the excuse of the doctor, but the boss was the sort who
would investigate. The boss was a real bastard and would
do anything to get rid of him.
The speedometer crept up to a hundred and ten kilometres
per hour and Karsten Asli swore under his breath as
he took his foot off the pedal and braked.
Maybe he should just turn around.

'The suspect is driving a dark-blue Mazda 323,' said the
helicopter pilot in a loud, clear voice, with undertones of
high drama. 'Registration number still unknown. Should
we follow? Repeat: should we follow?'
'At a distance,' was the scratchy reply in his headphones.
'Follow at a distance. Three cars are on the way.'
'Received,' said the pilot, and the helicopter curved over
the treetops before rising up to seven hundred metres.
His eyes did not leave the car.


64



Johanne had been sitting at the Grand Cafe for a quarter
of an hour. She was dreading meeting Unni Kongsbakken
and tried not to bite her nails. One finger was
already bleeding. At precisely three o'clock, the old lady
came into the restaurant. She lifted a hand to hold off the
head waiter and looked around. Johanne half got up and
waved.
Unni Kongsbakken came towards her, well built and
broad. She was dressed in a colourful woven jacket and a
skirt that came down to her ankles. Johanne caught sight of
a pair of solid, dark shoes as she approached the table.
'So you are Johanne Vik. How do you do?'
Her hand was heavy and dry. She sat down. At first
glance it was hard to believe that this woman was over
eighty. Her movements were strong and her hands were
steady when she put them on the table. It was only when
Johanne looked more closely that she could see that her
eyes had that pale, matt film that old people get when they
are so old that nothing surprises them any more.
'I'm very grateful that you were willing to meet me,' said
Unni Kongsbakken calmly.
'It was the least I could do,' said Johanne, and drank the
rest of her water. 'Shall we order something to eat?'
'Just a cup of coffee for me, thank you. I'm quite tired
after the journey.'
'Two cups of coffee,' said Johanne to the waiter, hoping
that he wouldn't insist on them eating.

'Who are you?' asked Unni Kongsbakken. 'Before I give
you my side of the story, I want to know more about who
you are. Astor and Geir were a bit... '
She smiled weakly.
' . . . vague, I think.'
'Well, my name is Johanne Vik,' Johanne started. 'And I
work at the university.'

The TV in Adam Stubo's office was on. Sigmund Berli and
one of the secretaries were standing watching just inside
the door. Adam himself was sitting with his feet on his desk
and chewing on an unlit cigar. It was a long time until the
end of the day. He had to have something to bite.
Something with no calories. He spat out some bits of dry
tobacco and realised that he was starving.
'This is very American,' said Sigmund, and shook his
head. 'TV-transmitted man hunt. Grotesque. Is there nothing
we can do to stop it?'
'Nothing that hasn't already been done,' said Adam.
He had to get something to eat. Even though it was
only an hour since he'd dug into two big rolls with salami
and tomato, he could feel the hunger burning under his
ribcage.
'This is going to end in disaster,' said the secretary, and
pointed at the screen. 'That's a madman's driving, and then
the pack of journalists behind . . . Something's got to go
wrong!'
The helicopter pictures on TV2 showed the Mazda
accelerating. On a bend, the back of the car slid out of control.
The journalist went wild:
'Laffen Sornes has spotted us,' he screamed with
delight.

'Along with five police cars and a couple of bear
hunters,' muttered Sigmund Berli. 'The guy must be petrified.'
Again
the Mazda skidded on a bend. The edge of the
road was loose, and stones and gravel sprayed the left side
of the car. For a moment it looked as if the car would drive
off the road. It took the driver a second or two to regain
control and then pick up speed even more.
'He can certainly drive a car,' said Adam drily. 'Any more
on Karsten Asli's son?'
Sigmund Berli didn't answer. He stared wide-eyed at the
TV screen. His mouth gaped but not a sound came out. It
was as if he was trying to give warning but knew there was
no point in saying anything.
'Oh, my God,' said the secretary. 'What. . . '

It would later transpire that more than seven hundred thousand
viewers had watched TV2's live transmission of the car
chase. Over seven hundred thousand people, most of them
at work, as it was twelve minutes past three in the afternoon,
watched as the dark blue Mazda 323, 1987 model, skidded
sideways into a bend and collided with an Opel Vectra, also
dark blue, coming in the opposite direction.
The Mazda was nearly ripped in two before it turned
over. It bounced on the roof of the Opel, which continued to
skid forwards. The Mazda got stuck on the Opel in a crazy
metallic embrace. The road barrier spat sparks at the car
doors before the Opel was thrown to the other side of the
road, with the Mazda still on the roof. A large stone marking
the edge of the road tore the bonnet of the Opel in two.
Seven hundred and forty-two thousand viewers held
their breath.

They all waited for an explosion that never came.
The only sound from the TV speakers was the throbbing
of a helicopter that circled just fifty metres above the
accident. The cameraman zoomed in on the man who only
a few seconds ago had been fleeing the police in a stolen
car. Laffen Sornes was hanging half out of a broken side
window. His face was turned upwards and it looked as if his
back was broken. His arm, the one in plaster, had been
ripped off at the shoulder and lay a few metres away from
the interlocked car wrecks.
'Bloody hell,' screamed the journalist.
Then the sound disappeared completely.

'It happened the night Astor was to present the arguments
for the prosecution,' said Unni Kongsbakken, pouring a bit
of milk into her half-empty coffee cup. 'And you have to
remember that
Her thick grey hair was put up in a loose bun that was
held together with black, enamelled Japanese chopsticks. A
lock had fallen out at the side. With deft hands she put her
hair up again.
'Astor was absolutely convinced that Aksel Seier was
guilty,' she continued. 'Absolutely convinced. There was,
after all, plenty to imply that he was guilty. He had also
contradicted himself and been unwilling to cooperate since
his arrest. It's easy to forget that
She paused and took a deep breath. Johanne could see
that Unni Kongsbakken was tired now, even though they
had only been talking for fifteen minutes. Her right eye
was red round the edges, and for the first time, Johanne got
the impression that Unni Kongsbakken hesitated.
' . . . after so many years,' she sighed. 'Astor was . . .
convinced. The way things transpired, the way I . . . No,
I'm confusing things now.'
Her smile was shy, nearly perplexed.
'Listen,' said Johanne, leaning towards Unni Kongsbakken.
'I really think this should wait. We can meet again
later. Next week.'
'No,' said Unni Kongsbakken with surprising force. 'I'm
old. I'm not helpless. Let me continue. Astor was sitting in
his study. He always spent a lot of time on the pleadings.
Never wrote them out. Keywords only, a sort of arrangement
on cards. Lots of people thought he made his
arguments spontaneously
She gave a dry laugh.

'Astor did nothing spontaneously. It was no fun having to
disturb him when he was working. But I had been down in
the cellar, in the laundry. Right at the back, behind some
pipes, I found Asbjorn's clothes. A sweater I'd knitted
myself- that was before I... I hadn't established myself as
a tapestry weaver yet. The sweater was bloody. It was covered
in blood. I got angry. Angry! Of course I thought he
had gone over the top with one of his protests again, killed
an animal. Well. I stomped upstairs to his room. I don't
know what made me . . . '
It was as if she was looking for the words, as if she had
rehearsed this for a long time, but still couldn't find the
words to say what she wanted to say.
'It was a feeling. That's all. As I went up the stairs. I
thought about the evening when little Hedvig disappeared.
Or rather, I thought about the following day. At some point
early in the morning, well ... of course, we didn't know
about Hedvig then. It was only announced a day or two
after the little girl had disappeared.'

She pressed her fingers to her temple, as if she had a
headache.
'I had woken up about five in the morning. I often do.
I've been like that all my life. But that morning in particular,
which would later prove to be the day after Hedvig was
killed, I thought I heard something. I was frightened of
course, Asbjorn was in his most manic period and did things
that were well beyond what I had imagined a teenager
could do. I heard steps. My first instinct was to get up and
find out what had happened. But then I just couldn't be
bothered. I felt absolutely exhausted. Something held me
back. I don't know what. Later, at the breakfast table,
Asbjorn was sullen and silent. He wasn't normally like that.
He normally talked incessantly. Even when he was writing,
he talked. Chatted away and gesticulated. Always. He had
opinions about everything. He had too many opinions,
he ... '
Again, a shy smile slipped over her face.
'But enough of that,' she interrupted herself. 'Anyway,
he was silent. Geir, on the other hand, was lively and chirpy.
I...'
She half closed her eyes and held her breath. It was as if
she was trying to recreate it all, to visualise the breakfast
table that morning in a small town just outside Oslo, long
ago, in 1956.
'I realised that something must have happened,' said
Unni Kongsbakken slowly. 'Geir was the quiet one. He
normally said nothing in the mornings. Just sat there, helplessly
. . . He was always in Asbjorn's shadow. Always. And
his father's. Even though Asbjorn was an unusually rebellious
teenager and didn't even want to carry his father's
name, it was as if Astor. . . admired him, you could say. He
saw something of himself in the boy, I think. His own
strength. Stubbornness. Self-assertion. It was always like
that. Geir was somehow . . . superfluous. Always. But that
morning he was chatty and bright and I knew that something
was wrong. Of course, I didn't think of Hedvig. As I
said, we knew nothing about the little girl's fate until later.
But there was something about the boys' behaviour that
made me so frightened that I didn't dare to ask. And then
when I later, weeks later, the evening before Astor was
going to argue that Aksel Seier was guilty of killing Hedvig
Gasoy . . . when I went upstairs with Asbjorn's bloody
sweater in my arms, angry as sin, suddenly . . . '
She folded her hands again. Locks of hair fell down
heavy and grey on one shoulder. Tears flowed from the red
eye. Johanne was not sure whether the old lady was crying
or whether her eye was infected.
'It struck me, like a kind of vision,' said Unni
Kongsbakken, tensely. 'I went into Asbjorn's room. He was
sitting writing as usual. I threw the sweater at him; he
shrugged his shoulders and carried on writing. Without
saying anything. Hedvig, I said. Is this Hedvig's blood?
Again he shrugged and carried on writing, at a furious pace.
I thought I was going to die. There and then. Everything
went black and I literally had to lean against the wall to stop
myself from falling. The boy had given me endless sleepless
nights. He always made me anxious. But I had never, never
Her hand hit the white tablecloth, Johanne jumped.
The glass and cutlery chimed and the waiter came running
over.
' . . . never thought that he had it in him to do anything
like that,' Unni Kongsbakken concluded.
'No, thank you,' Johanne said to the waiter, who withdrew
with some hesitation. 'What . . . what did he say
then?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No.'
'But. . . did he admit. . . '
'He had nothing to admit, it turned out.'
'I'm sorry, I don't quite . . . '
'I just stood there, leaning against the wall. Asbjorn
wrote and wrote. To this day I don't know how long we
stayed there on our own. It could well have been half an
hour. It was like . . . like losing everything. It's possible I
asked him again. But he didn't answer. Just wrote and
wrote, as if I wasn't there. As if. . . '
Now she was really crying. Her tears fell from both eyes
and she fished around in her sleeve for a hanky.
'Then Geir came in. I didn't hear him. Suddenly he was
just there, beside me, staring at the sweater that had fallen
on the floor. He started to cry. "/ didn 't mean to. I didn'/ mean
toT Those were precisely the words he used. He was eighteen
years old and he was crying like a baby. AsbJorn
jumped up and threw himself at his brother. "Shutupf he
screamed, again and again.'
'Geir? Geir said that he didn't mean to, that he . . . ?'
'Yes,' said Unni Kongsbakken, and straightened her
back. She pressed her hanky gently to her eyes before tucking
it back up her sleeve. 'He wasn't able to say much
more. Asbjorn literally knocked him out.'
'But, does that mean . . . I'm not sure what. . . '
'Asbjorn was the kindest person you could imagine,' said
Unni Kongsbakken, calmer now and breathing freely; she

was no longer crying. 'Asbjorn was an affectionate boy.
Everything he wrote later, all that awful, offensive . . .
Blasphemy. The attacks. It was only words. He just wrote,
Asbjorn. In reality he was a very kind man. And he was very
fond of his brother.'
Johanne tried to swallow, but something was blocking
her throat, just below the larynx. It was difficult. She had to
say something, anything. She had no idea what.
'It was Geir who killed little Hedvig,' said Unni
Kongsbakken. 'I am almost certain of it.'

It took the emergency services over three quarters of an
hour to get the man out of the wreckage of the blue Opel.
His leg had been ripped off at the thigh. His left eyeball
had been crushed; a bloody clump had fallen out of the eye
socket and dangled helplessly on his cheek. The steering
wheel lay some hundred metres away at the foot of a pine
tree; the wheel shaft had plunged deep into the man's
stomach.
'He's alive,' panted one of the rescue men. 'Fucking
hell! The man's alive!'
Barely an hour later, the driver of the blue Opel was on
the operating table. Things didn't look hopeful, but there
was still life in him.
Laffen Sornes, on the other hand, was still staring
blankly at the sky with his body twisted halfway out of the
side window of a stolen Mazda 323. An inexperienced
policeman was bending over a stream, crying openly. Three
helicopters still hovered above the accident. Only one of
them belonged to the police.
TV2 was about to break the record for afternoon viewers.
People passed outside the big windows of the Grand Cafe.
Some were in a hurry. Others ambled down the street aimlessly;
they had all the time in the world and Johanne's gaze
followed them. She was trying to gather her thoughts. Unni
Kongsbakken had apologised, got up and left the table,
without saying where she was going. She left behind her
bag, a big, brown leather bag with metal details.
Presumably she had just gone to the toilet.
Johanne felt exhausted.
She tried to picture Geir Kongsbakken. His face kept
slipping away; even though it was no more than a day since
she met him, she couldn't recall what he looked like, other
than that he looked boring. Compact and heavy, like both
his parents. She remembered the smell of furniture wax
and brown wood. She remembered his neutral suit. The
lawyer's face was just an unclear blur in her mind.
Unni Kongsbakken came back. She sat down again without
a word.
'What do you mean by "I am almost certain"?' asked
Johanne.
'Pardon?'
'You said . . . You said you were almost certain that . . .
that Geir killed Hedvig. Why just almost certain?'
'I can't know for certain,' said Unni Kongsbakken drily.
'Not in a legal sense, at least. He has never admitted to anything.'
'But...'
'Let
me continue.'
She lifted her cup. It was empty. Johanne waved to the
waiter for a refill. The waiter was getting annoyed; Unni
Kongsbakken had to ask twice for more milk before he
brought some.

'Geir was knocked out,' she said in the end. 'And
Asbjorn was like a clam. It only took a minute or two before
Geir came round again. And then he was as silent as his
brother. I went to get Astor. As I said, he was sitting in his
study and it was quite late.'
Again she got that faraway look in her eyes, as if she was
trying to turn back time.
'Astor was furious. First because I had disturbed him, of
course, and then because of what I had to say. It was ludicrous,
he shouted. Rubbish. Codswallop, he shouted at me.
He commanded the boys down to the sofa and bombarded
them with questions. Neither of them said a word.
They . . . they simply didn't answer. Anything. For me, that
was as good an answer as any. Even though Asbjorn was a
rebel, he always had a kind of respect for his father. I had
never seen him like that before. The boy looked his father
defiantly in the eye and did not answer. Geir stared down
into his lap. He was silent too, even when Astor slapped
him hard. In the end, Astor gave up. He sent them to bed.
It was well past midnight. He was shaking when he got into
bed beside me. I told him what I thought. That Geir had
killed Hedvig and that he'd called Asbjorn to help him get
rid of . . . the body. We only had one phone in the house
and it was right outside Asbjorn's room. Geir could have
phoned him in the night without us hearing it. That's what
I said. Astor said nothing, he just cried silently. I had never
seen my husband cry. Finally he said that I was wrong.
That it wasn't possible. Aksel Seier had killed Hedvig, and
that was that. He turned his back to me and said no more.
I didn't give in. I went through everything again. The
bloody sweater. The boys' peculiar behaviour. The
evening that Hedvig disappeared, Geir had been at a Young
Socialists' meeting in Oslo. Asbjorn was at home. In the
early hours I heard . . . sorry, I've already told you that. I'm
repeating myself. But Astor wouldn't listen. When the day
finally dawned, he got up. He had a shower, got dressed
and went to work. From what I read in the papers, he gave
an impassioned speech. Then he came home and we ate
dinner in silence. All four of us.'
Unni Kongsbakken slapped her hand lightly on the
table, as if setting a full stop.
'I don't quite know what to say to all this,' said Johanne.
'Strictly speaking, you don't need to say anything.'
'But Anders Mohaug, it was him who . . . '
'Anders had also changed. I hadn't noticed it earlier, the
boy was always a bit strange. But then, after that evening, I
noticed that he was also quieter. More stooped. More anxious,
somehow. It wasn't hard to imagine why Asbjorn had
presumably taken Anders with him. He was a very big boy,
you see. Strong. I tried to talk to Mrs Mohaug when the
opportunity arose. She was like a frightened animal. Didn't
want to talk.'
Unni Kongsbakken's eyes filled again. Her tears followed
a line along the base of her nose. She licked her
upper lip lightly.
'She obviously thought that Anders had done it on his
own,' she said quietly. 'I should have been more insistent.
I should have . . . Mrs Mohaug was never herself again after
that winter.'
'When Anders died,' Johanne ventured, but was interrupted
again.
'Astor and I never talked about the Hedvig case after
that fateful night. It was as if that entire terrible night was
shut away in a drawer, locked away, and hidden for ever;
 ... As time passed, it was as if nothing had ever happened.
Geir became a lawyer like his father. He tried to be
like Astor in every way, without ever succeeding. Asbjorn
started to write his books. In other words, there were plenty
of other things to worry about.'
She gave a deep sigh, her voice trembling, before she
pulled herself together:
'One day, it must have been sometime in summer, in
1965, Astor came home from the office . . . Yes, he was
working for the Ministry at the time.'
'Yes, I knew that.'
'His good friend, the director general, Einar Danielsberg,
had been to see him. Asked him about the Hedvig case and
Aksel Seier. Some new information had come to light that
might indicate that. . . '
She put her face in her hands. Her wedding ring, thin
and worn, was embedded on her right ring finger. It had
nearly disappeared under a fold in her skin.
'Astor just said that everything had been taken care of,' she
said in a still voice. 'That there was no need to be frightened.'
'To be frightened?'
'That was all he said. I don't know what happened.'
Suddenly she revealed her face again.
'Astor was an honourable man. The fairest man I have
ever met. But he still let an innocent man go to prison.
That said something. It taught me that
She took a deep breath, nearly gasped.
'We will do anything for what is ours. That's the way we
are made, we humans. We protect what is ours.'
Then she got up, an old, old lady, heavy and slow. Her
hair had fallen from the Japanese chopsticks. Her eyes were
swollen.
'As I'm sure you understand, I could never prove anything.'
It
was as if her bag had grown too heavy in the course of
the afternoon. She tried to put it on her shoulder, but it just
slid down. In the end she clasped the bag with both arms
and tried to straighten her back.
'That has comforted me, for a long time. I couldn't be
certain about anything. The boys would never talk. The
sweater was burnt. Astor made sure of that. When Asbjorn
died, I read his books for the first time. In The Fall of Man,
the Fourteenth of November, I finally found the certainty I
needed.'
I can understand that you've protected your husband,
thought Johanne, and tried to find words that would not
offend. But now you're betraying your own son. You're surrendering
your own son. After all these years . . . your own
son. Why?
'Geir has had over forty years of freedom,' said Unni
Kongsbakken in a dull voice. 'He has had forty years that
did not belong to him. I think he has ... I assume that he
hasn't done anything else.'
Her smile was full of shame, as if she couldn't believe
what she was saying.
'I couldn't say anything earlier. Astor would . . . Astor
would never have survived it. It was bad enough with
Asbjorn. With those awful books, all the clamour, the suicide.'
She
sighed weakly.
'Thank you for taking the time to listen to me. You'll
have to decide for yourself what you want to do with what
you now know. I have done my bit. Too late, of course, but
all the same . . . You will have to decide what happens to
Geir. Presumably you can't do much. He will of course
deny everything. And as nothing can be proven . . . But it
could perhaps help this . . . Aksel Seier. To know what happened,
I mean. Goodbye.'
Johanne watched her bent back as she made her way to
the large doors of the Grand Cafe, and it struck her that the
colours in her jacket seemed to have faded. It was as much
as the old woman could do to lift her feet. Through the
windows, she saw someone help her into a taxi. A hairbrush
fell out of her bag as the door closed; Johanne sat and followed
the car as it drove Unni Kongsbakken away.
The brush was full of dead hairs. Johanne was surprised
by how clear they were, even at that distance. They were
grey and reminded her of Aksel Seier.


65



Adam Stubo was sitting alone in his office, trying to suppress
an inappropriate feeling of relief.
Laffen Sornes had died as he lived, escaping from a society
that despised him. It was tragic. All the same, Adam
could not rid himself of a feeling of satisfaction. With
Laffen Sornes out of the way, it would perhaps be possible
to get more people to concentrate on the real sinner, the
real hunt. Adam breathed easier at the thought. He felt
stronger and more energetic than he had for days.
It was a while since he'd turned off the TV. It was revolting
to see how the journalists buzzed around in a blood
haze without giving any thought to the seriousness of the
tragedy that had just occurred live on television. He shuddered
and started to sort his documents.
Sigmund Berli burst into the room.
Adam looked up and frowned.
'That was quite an entrance,' he said laconically, tapping
his finger on his desk and nodding at the door. 'Have we
completely forgotten our manners?'
'The crash,' puffed Sigmund Berli. 'Laffen Sornes died,
as you've no doubt heard. But the other . . . '
He gasped for breath, bent over slightly and pressed his
palms against his knees.
'The other. . . The man in the other car. . . '
'Sit down, Sigmund.'
Adam pointed to the other chair.
'Jesus wept, the other one was . . . Karsten Asli!'
Adam felt like his heart had short-circuited. Everything
stopped. He tried to focus, but his eyes were locked on to
Sigmund's chest. His tie was tucked in between two buttons
on his shirt. It was far too red, with birds on it. The tail
of a yellow goose stuck out from an opening on his chest.
Adam didn't even know if he was still breathing.
'Did you hear what I said?' Sigmund shouted. 'It was
Karsten Asli who crashed with Laffen! If you're right, that
means that Emilie
'Emilie,' Adam repeated, his voice giving way; he tried
to cough. ¦	'Karsten Asli is about to die too! If you're right, how the
fuck are we going to find Emilie, Adam? If Karsten Asli has
forgotten her and decides to log off for good?'
Adam got up from the chair slowly. He had to support
himself by holding on to the edge of the table. He had to
think. He had to focus.
'Sigmund,' he said, in a more normal voice. 'Go to the
hospital. Do everything you can to get the man to talk. If at
	all possible.'
[	'He's unconscious, you idiot!'
Adam straightened up.
'Yes, I realise that,' he said pointedly. 'That's why you
have to be there. In case he wakes up.'
'And you? What are you going to do in the meantime?'
'I'm going to go to Snaubu.'
'But you've got no more on the guy than you did yesterday,
Adam! Even though Karsten Asli has been seriously injured,
you can't just break into his property without a warrant!'
Adam pulled on his jacket and looked over at the clock.
'I don't care,' he said calmly 'Right now, I don't give a
damn.'
66



Aksel Seier was amazed at how at home he felt in the
small room where Eva lived. The walls were a warm
yellow colour, and even though the bed was metal and it
said Oslo City Council on the bedclothes, it was still Eva's
room. He recognised a couple of things from the bedsit in
Brugata, where she'd cleaned the wround on the back of his
head with iodine that night in 1965. The pale-blue porcelain
angel with open wings and remnants of gold paint that
she'd been given for her confirmation. He remembered it
as soon as his fingers stroked the cool figurine. The painting
of Hovedoya at sunset that he'd given her. It was
hanging above the bed, the colours paler than when he had
put down fifteen kroner on the counter in a second-hand
shop and taken the picture away with him, wrapped in
brown paper and tied with string.
Eva had also faded.
But she was still his Eva.
Her hand was old and destroyed by illness. It was as if
her face had been worn out, its expression frozen in a
relentless pain. Her body was now just a motionless shell
around the woman that Aksel Seier still loved. He didn't
say much. It took some time for Eva to tell him the story.
She had to rest every now and then. Aksel kept quiet and
listened.

He felt at home in the room.
'He changed so much,' said Eva quietly. 'Everything
went to pieces. He didn't have enough money to pursue

the case. If he used what was left of the inheritance from
Mother, he would have nowhere to live. And then he certainly
wouldn't stand a chance. It killed him, Aksel. He
hasn't even been to see me for the past few months.'
Everything would be sorted, Aksel soothed her. He had
taken out his cards. Platinum, he explained, holding the shiny
piece of plastic up to her eyes. These cards were only given to
the wealthy. He was wealthy. He would sort everything out.
Everything would be sorted, now that Aksel had finally
come.
'I could have come earlier.'
She just hadn't asked him to. Aksel knew that; it wasn't
possible to come to Norway before Eva wanted him to.
Even though she hadn't really invited him now, there was a
plea for help in what she wrote. The letter came in May,
not in July like it should have. It was a desperate letter, and
he had answered her by leaving everything behind and
coming home.
Aksel drank some juice from a large glass that was standing
on the bedside table. It tasted fresh. It tasted of
Norway, blackcurrant syrup and water. The real thing.
Norwegian juice. He dried his mouth and smiled.
Aksel heard something and half turned round. Fear
blasted through his body. He let go of Eva's hand and
balled his fist without being aware of it. The policeman
with the keys and watery eyes, the one who wanted Aksel
to admit to something he had not done and who had
haunted him in his dreams, had worn a different uniform.
More old-fashioned, perhaps. This man had a loose jacket
and a black and white checked band round his trouser legs.
But he was a policeman. Aksel saw that immediately and
looked out of the window.
'Eva Asli?' asked the man, coming nearer.
Eva whispered that she was. The man cleared his throat
and came even closer to the bed. Aksel caught the smell of
leather and car oil from his jacket.
'I'm sorry to tell you that your son has been in a serious
accident. Karsten Asli. He is your son, isn't he?'
Aksel got up and straightened his back.
'Karsten Asli is our son,' he said slowly. 'Eva's and my
son.'



67



Johanne trudged the streets without knowing where she
was going. A bitter wind whistled between the tall buildings
in Ibsenkvartalet and she vaguely registered that she
was on her way to the office. She didn't want to go there.
Even though she was freezing, she wanted to stay out of
doors. She picked up her pace and half decided to visit Isak
and Kristiane. They could go for a walk out on Bygdoy, all
three of them. Johanne needed it now. After nearly four
years of sharing responsibility for Kristiane, she had got
used to the arrangement. And when she missed Kristiane
too much, she could just visit her at Isak's. He appreciated
it when she came, and was always friendly. Johanne had got
used to the situation. But getting used to something was
not the same as liking it. She had a constant yearning to
hold the girl, to hug her tight and to make her laugh.
Sometimes the feeling was unbearably strong, like now.
Usually it helped to reason that it was good for Kristiane to
be with her father. That he was as important to her daughter
as she was. That was the way it had to be.
That Kristiane was not her property.
Tears fell from one eye. It could be the wind.
They could do something nice together, all three of
them.
Unni Kongsbakken had seemed so strong when she
came to the Grand Cafe and so tired and worn out when
she left. Her youngest son had died years ago. She had lost
her husband yesterday. And today she had in a way given
away the only thing she had left: an untold story and her
oldest son.
Johanne put her hands in her pockets and decided to
walk to Isak's.
Her mobile phone rang.
It was probably the office. She hadn't been there since
yesterday. She'd phoned in this morning to say that she was
going to work at home, but she hadn't even checked her
emails. She didn't want to talk to anyone. Right now she
wanted to be left in peace to face the truth about little
Hedvig's murder in 1956. She needed to digest the fact that
Aksel Seier had served someone else's sentence. She had
no idea what she was going to do, or whom she should talk
to. She wasn't even sure if she would tell Alvhild what she
knew. The telephone stayed in her bag.
It stopped ringing.
Then it started again. Irritated, she rummaged around in
her bag. The display said ANONYMOUS. She pushed the
answer button and put the phone to her ear.
'Finally,' said Adam, relieved. 'Where are you?'
Johanne looked around.
'In Rosenkrantzgate,' she said. 'Or to be exact, CJ
Hambros Plass. Just outside the courts.'
'Stay there. Don't move. I'm only a couple of minutes
away.'
'But... '
He had already hung up.

The policeman seemed to be uncomfortable. He stared at
the piece of paper in his hand, even though there was obviously
nothing there that could ease the situation. The
woman in the bed was crying quietly and had no questions.

Aksel Seier would stay in Norway.
He would later marry Eva. A quiet ceremony with no
guests and no gifts other than a bunch of flowers from
Johanne Vik. But he didn't know that yet, as he stood there in
the warm yellow room with his future wife, his hands
clenched at his sides, with cropped hair and a pair of pink and
turquoise checked golfing trousers. Even though he would
never be formally cleared of the crime for which he was sentenced,
over time he would straighten his back, secure in the
knowledge of what had actually happened. A journalist from Aftenposten would write an article that verged on libel, and
even though Geir Kongsbakken's name was not mentioned in
the paper, the sixty-two-year-old decided shortly after that it
might be wise to wind up his small firm in ovre Slottsgate. As
a result of the article and an application by Johanne Vik, Aksel
Seier would receive an ex gratia payment from the
Norwegian parliament that he felt was as good as an acquittal
in court. He framed the accompanying letter, which then
hung over Eva's bed until she died fourteen months after
their wedding. Aksel Seier would never meet the man he had
been sentenced for, and never felt the need to either.
But Aksel Seier knew none of this as he stood there,
groping for words, questions for the man with the chessboard
wrapped round his legs. The only thing he could
think about was a day in July 1969. He had moved from
Boston to Cape Cod and the weather was good. Eva's letter,
the July letter, had come. As it had the summer before, and
the summer before that. Every Christmas, every summer,
since 1966, when Aksel left Norway without knowing that
Eva would give birth to a son five months later, Aksel
Seier's son. She only told him about it in 1969.
Aksel Seier had sat on a red stone on the beach with
shaking hands when he discovered that he had a child who
was nearly three years old.
But he wasn't allowed to go back. Eva was living with her
mother, in a small place outside Oslo, and nothing must
change. Her mother would kill her, she wrote. Her mother
would take the boy away from her if Aksel came home. He
wasn't allowed to come back, said Eva, and he could see that
she'd been crying. Her tears had stained the paper, dry
patches of smudged ink that made the words nearly illegible.
Aksel Seier had never understood why Eva waited so
long. He didn't dare ask.
Not even now; he fiddled with the permanent crease in
his trousers and didn't know what to say.
'Right,' said the policeman with some scepticism, and
stared even harder at the piece of paper. 'It says nothing
here about a father. . . '
Then he shrugged.
'But if... '
The look he sent to the woman in the bed was full of
doubt, as though he thought Aksel was lying. Eva Asli
could hardly protest the man's claimed fatherhood. All she
could do was cry, unbearably softly, and the policeman wondered
whether he should call a doctor.
'Take me to Karsten,' said Aksel Seier, stroking his head.
The policeman shrugged again.
'OK,' he mumbled, and looked over at Eva again. 'If
that's all right with you, then
He thought he saw a slight movement in answer. Maybe
it was a nod.
'Come on then,' he said to Aksel. 'I'll drive you. It's possible
there's not much time.'
'There's not much time,' snapped Adam. 'We've got to
damn well hurry! D'you not understand?'
Johanne had asked him to slow down three times. Each
time Adam responded by accelerating. The last time he
had whipped the blue light out through the window and
thumped it on the roof, on a bend at full speed. Johanne
closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.
They had barely exchanged a word since he explained
to her where they were going and why. They had driven
furiously in silence for an hour. They must be nearly there
now. Johanne noticed a petrol station where a fat man with
bright-red hair was pulling a tarpaulin over a couple of cords
of wood. He raised his hand automatically as they swerved
into a bend.
'Where the hell is that turn-off?'
Adam was nearly shouting, but slammed on the brakes
when he saw the small, unmarked road up the hill.
'First right, then two left,' he remembered and
repeated: 'First right, two left. Right. Two left.'
Snaubu was beautifully situated on the crown of a hill,
with a view over the valley, sunny and isolated. The house
looked almost derelict from a distance. As they got closer,
Johanne saw that one of the walls had recently been repanelled
and painted. There were also some foundations that
might be for a garage. Or an outhouse. When the car
stopped, she felt her pulse thundering in her ears. The
wind was still cold up here on the hillside and she caught
her breath as she got out.
'Do you really think she's here?' she said, and shivered.
'I don't think,' said Adam running into the house. 'I know.'
Aksel Seier sat on the edge of the metal chair with his
hands in his lap.
Karsten Asli was unconscious. They had managed to
stop the internal bleeding. A doctor explained to Aksel that
several more operations were needed, but that they would
wait until the patient's condition had stabilised. Something
in the doctor's eyes told Aksel that the chances were small.
Karsten was going to die.
The respirator sighed heavily and mechanically. Aksel
had to concentrate so as not to breathe in rhythm with the
big bellows; it made him dizzy.
Karsten looked like Eva. Even with a tube in his nose, a
tube in his mouth, tubes everywhere and bandages on his
head; Aksel could see it. The same features, the big mouth and eyes, which were undoubtedly blue under the distorted,
swollen lids. Aksel ran his finger over his son's hand.
It was ice cold.
'It's me,' he whispered. 'Your dad is here.'
Karsten's body shuddered. Then he lay completely still
again, in a room where the only noise came from a wheezing
respirator and a heart monitor that bleeped red above
Aksel's head.

'She's not here. We just have to accept that.'
Johanne tried to put her hand on his arm. Adam pulled
away and stormed over to the stairs down to the cellar.
They'd already been down there three times. And up in the
loft. Every cupboard and corner in the house had been
searched. Adam had even pulled apart a double bed to
check in all the empty spaces. He had checked the kitchen
cupboards at random and even opened the dishwasher in
vain several times.


'One more time,' he said in desperation, and thundered
down the stairs without waiting for an answer.
Johanne stayed in the living room. Adam had broken in. They had broken into someone else's property without a
warrant. Emergency rights, he mumbled when he finally
managed to open the front door. Rubbish, she answered,
and followed him in. But Emilie was not in the house. Now,
when Johanne finally had the chance to think, she realised
that it was pure madness. Adam felt something. He felt that
Emilie had been taken hostage and was being held somewhere
on the farm, by a man with a clean record, who had
no more damning evidence against him other than that he
had known some members of the families concerned.
But Adam had a hunch, and for that reason she was now
standing in the middle of a strange and sterile living room
in a small farmhouse up a hillside, far from civilisation.
'Johanne!'
She didn't want to go down there again. The cellar was damp and full of dust. She was already struggling to breathe
and coughed.
'Yes,' she shouted back without moving. 'What is it?'
'Come here! Can you hear the noise?'
'What kind of noise?'
'Come here!'
Reluctantly she made her way down the steep steps. He
was right. When they both stood completely still in the
middle of the concrete floor, they could hear a faint humming.
A mechanical sound, regular and low.
'It's almost like my PC,' whispered Johanne.
'Or a ... air conditioning. It could be ... '
Adam started to feel along the walls with his hands. The
plaster fell off in several places. A huge wardrobe without
doors stood against the shorter wall, which Johanne thought
faced east. Adam tried to look behind it. He squatted down
and studied the floor.
'Help me,' he said, and started to push away the large
piece of furniture. there are marks on the floor. This cupboard
has been moved more than once.'
He didn't need her help. The cupboard slipped away
from the wall with ease. Behind it was a small trapdoor that
reached to about hip height. It was obviously new, with
shiny hinges and no lock. He opened it. Behind the door, a
narrow passage sloped down, barely big enough for a grown
man. Adam climbed in on all fours; Johanne followed, bent
double. Two to three metres in, the passage opened out
into a small room, where they could both stand, with concrete
walls and a glaring light from the strip light on the
ceiling. Neither of them said anything. The sound of the air
conditioning was clearer here. They both stared at a door in
the wall, a heavy, shiny steel door. Adam pulled a handkerchief
from his jacket pocket and carefully put it over the
handle. Then he slowly opened it. The hinges were well
oiled and silent.
The rancid smell of human filth made Johanne retch.
The light inside the door was sharp as well. The room
was perhaps ten square metres and contained a sink, a toilet
and a narrow pine bed.
There was a child in the bed. The child was naked. It
wasn't moving. On the floor there was a neatly folded pile
of clothes, and at the end of the bed a dirty duvet, with no
cover. Johanne went into the room.
'Careful,' warned Adam.
He had noticed that the door had no handle on the
inside. There was a hook that made it possible to fix the
door to the wall but, to be on the safe side, he stayed and
held it open.
'Emilie,' said Johanne quietly, and squatted down in
front of the bed.
The child was a girl and she opened her eyes. They
were green. She blinked a couple of times, without managing
to focus her eyes. She had a Barbie doll astride her
skinny chest, with a cowboy hat at a jaunty angle. Johanne
gently put her hand on the girl's and said:
'My name is Johanne. I'm here to take you to your daddy'
Johanne looked up and down the girl's naked body: skin
and bones, with big scabs on her knees. Her hips were like
two sharp knives that looked as if they might break through
the thin film of pale, transparent skin. Johanne started to
cry. She took off her jacket, took off her sweater, her vest;
she stood there in her bra and pulled her own clothes over
the tiny body without saying a word.
'There are some clothes on the floor,' said Adam tactfully.
'I
don't know if they're hers,' said Johanne, and sobbed
as she lifted Emilie up from the bed.
The child weighed nothing. Johanne hugged her close
to her own, bare skin.
'They might be his things. His clothes. They might be that fucking. . . '
'Daddy,' said Emilie. 'I want my daddy'
'We're going to drive to your daddy right now,' said
Johanne, and kissed the girl on the forehead. 'Everything's
going to be just fine now, my love.'
As if anything will ever be fine again after this, she
thought, and walked towards the steel door where Adam
carefully put his own coarse jacket over her shoulders.
As if you will ever get over what you've experienced in
this tomb.
As she left the room, slowly and gently so as not to
frighten the child, she noticed a pair of man's underpants
on the floor by the door. They were worn out and green,
with a cheeky elephant waving its thick trunk by the fly.
'Oh, my God,' groaned Johanne into Emilie's matted
hair.


68



It was two o'clock in the morning of Friday 9 June 2000.
A light rain drizzled from low clouds over Oslo. The
meteorologists had promised no rain and mild nights, but it
couldn't be more than five degrees outside. Johanne closed
the door to the terrace. It felt like she hadn't slept for a
week. When she tried to follow the drops that slid in stages
down the living-room window, she got a headache. Her
lower back ached when she tried to stretch her body. But it
was impossible to go to sleep all the same. At about hip
height, she could clearly see a print of Kristiane's hand on
the glass against the undefined pattern of the rain outside.
Chubby fingers spread out like the petal in an uneven
circle. Johanne stroked the handprint.
'Do you think Emilie will ever get over it?' she asked
quietly.
'No. But she's at home now. They wanted to keep her in
hospital, but her aunt refused. She's a doctor herself and
felt that the child would be better off at home. Emilie will
be well looked after, Johanne.'
'But will she ever get over it?'
When she touched it lightly, carefully, she could swear
she felt the warmth from Kristiane's hand on the smooth
glass.
'No. Why don't you sit down?'
Johanne tried to smile.
'I've got a sore back.'
Adam rubbed his face and yawned loudly.

'Apparently, there was a terrible dispute about access
rights,' he started to say halfway through the yawn. 'Karsten
Asli has been trying to see his son since he was born, and
the mother left hospital the day before she was due to
leave. They went through three different instances and five
court hearings and she consistently claimed that Karsten
Asli was not suited to have care of the child. She was
adamant that he was a dangerous man. Sigmund managed
to get hold of copies of all the documentation this afternoon.
Karsten Asli won his case straight down the line, but
the mother challenged the judgment and brought interlocutory
appeals, delayed the outcome . . . and finally, just
ran away Abroad, presumably. It would seem that Karsten
Asli doesn't know where. He contacted a private detective
agency . . . '
Adam smiled without joy.
' . . . when the police just shrugged their shoulders and
said there wasn't much they could do. The detective
agency invoiced him for sixty-five thousand kroner for a
trip to Australia. Which resulted in nothing more than a
three-page report that said that Ellen Kverneland and her
little boy were presumably not there either. The agency
wanted to investigate some leads in Latin America, but
Karsten Asli didn't have any more money. That's about all
we know at the moment. Maybe we'll have a fuller picture
in a day or two. Not a nice case.'
'No custody cases are nice,' said Johanne in a terse voice.
'Why do you think I agreed to share the care of Kristiane?'
'I thought perhaps
She interrupted:
'This Ellen Kverneland was right, in other words. Not
surprising she ran away. Karsten Asli can't exactly have
promised to be the perfect father. It's so difficult to get
people to understand things like that in court. He had a
clean record and obviously knew how to behave to make
the right impression.'
'But the case itself, this dispute about access, might
have . . . '
'Made him psychopathic? No. Of course not.'
'That's perhaps the worst thing,' said Adam. 'That we'll
never know why he . . . who Karsten Asli actually was. What he was. Why he did what he ... '
Johanne slowly shook her head. The windowpane was
cold against her fingertips now and she put her hands in her
pockets.
'The worst thing is that three children are dead,' she
said. 'And that Emilie will probably never. . . '
She couldn't bear to cry any more. But her eyes filled up
all the same, and she felt a cramp in her diaphragm that
made her bend forward; she leaned her forehead against
the window and tried to breathe slowly.
'You don't know how Emilie will cope,' said Adam, and
got up. 'Time heals most wounds. At least, it can help us to
live with them.'
'You saw her,' Johanne flared, and pulled away from the
hand on her left shoulder. 'Didn't you see the state she was
in? She will never be herself again. Never!'
She threw her arms round herself and rocked from side
to side, with her head down, as if she was holding a baby in
her arms.
Damaged goods, Warren had once said about a boy they
had found after he'd been held hostage for five days. Those
kids are damaged goods, you know.
The boy couldn't speak, but the doctors said there was a

good chance that he would regain the ability. It would just
take time. They should also be able to do something about
the damage to his rectum. It would just take time. Warren
shook his head without emotion, shrugged his shoulders
and again exclaimed:
Damaged goods.
She was too young then, too young and in love and full
of ambitions for a career in the FBI. So she said nothing.
'Can I stay the night?' said Adam.
She lifted her head.
'It's late,' said Adam.
She tried to breathe. Something was caught in her throat
and she froze.
'Can I?' asked Adam.
'On the sofa,' said Johanne, and swallowed. 'You can
sleep on the sofa, if you want.'

She was woken by a strip of sunlight squeezing its way in
through the gap between the blind and the window frame.
She lay still for a long time, listening. The neighbourhood
was quiet, one or two birds had already started their day.
The alarm clock said it was six o'clock. She had only slept
for about three hours, but she got up all the same. It was
only when she went to the bathroom that she remembered
that Adam had stayed the night. She tiptoed out into the
living room.
He was sleeping on his back with his mouth open, but
there was no noise. The blanket had slipped half off to
reveal a solid thigh. He had on blue boxer shorts and her
football shirt. His arm was resting on the back of the sofa
and his fingers were clutching the coarse material, as if he
was holding on in order not to fall on the floor.

He was so like Warren on the outside. And yet so different
in every other way.
One day I'll tell you about Warren, she thought to herself.
One day I'll tell you what happened. But not yet. I
think we've got plenty of time.
He grunted a bit and a small snort made his Adam's
apple jump. He turned over in his sleep to find a new position.
The blanket fell to the floor. She carefully laid it over
him again; she held her breath and tucked the red checked
blanket around him. Then she went into the study.
Sunlight streamed in through the window to the east and made it difficult to see. She pulled down the blinds and
turned on her computer. The secretary at work had sent an
email, with five messages. Only one of them was important.
Aksel Seier was in Norway. He wanted to meet her and
had left two numbers. One was for the Continental Hotel.
Johanne hadn't thought about Aksel Seier since she'd
found Emilie. Unni Kongsbakken's story had been forgotten
in that tomb on Snaubu farm. When Johanne had been
wandering aimlessly through the streets of Oslo, before
Adam picked her up and took her to the home-made
bunker on top of a hill some miles north-east of Oslo, she
had been uncertain what to do with the old lady's story. If
there was anything she could do. All her doubts vanished now.
The story of Hedvig Gasoy's murder was Aksel Seier's
story. He owned it. Johanne would meet him, give him
what was his and then take him to meet Alvhild. Only then
would she be finished with Aksel Seier.
Johanne turned round. Adam was standing barefoot in
the doorway. He was scratching his belly and gave a lopsided
smile.

'Early, this. Bloody early. Should I make coffee?'
Without waiting for an answer he padded over to her and
cupped her face in his hands. He didn't kiss her, but he was
still smiling, more broadly now, and Johanne felt a fresh
morning breeze coming in through the half-open window,
stroking her legs through her pyjamas. The summer the
meteorologists had promised for so long was finally here.

'I think it's going to be a lovely day,' said Adam, and
didn't let go of her. 'I think summer is finally here,
Johanne.'


69



When Johanne met Aksel Seier at the reception of the
Continental Hotel in the morning on 9 June, she
barely recognised him. In Harwichport he had looked like
a fisherman and odd-job man from a small New England
town, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Now he looked
more like a cruise tourist from Florida. His hair had been
shaved off and he had nothing to hide behind any more.
His face was sombre. He didn't even smile when he saw
her, and didn't ask her to sit down. It was as if he had no
time to lose. He spoke in English when he told her that his
son was in hospital following a serious car accident. It was a
matter of hours, he said bluntly. He had to go.
'Do you . . . ' Johanne started, then hesitated, completely
thrown by the fact that Aksel Seier had a son, a son
who lived in Norway, a son who was now lying in hospital
and was about to die. 'Do you want company? Do you want
me to come? Keep you company?'
He nodded.
'Yeah. I think so. Thanks.'
It was only when they were in the cab that she twigged.
Later, in the days and weeks that followed, when she
tried to understand what had happened in the taxi on the
way to the hospital where Karsten Asli lay dying, she was
reminded of her old maths teacher from secondary school.
For some reason she had chosen sciences. Maybe
because she was good at school and science was for the
clever ones. Johanne had never understood maths. Big
numbers and mathematical signs were as meaningless to
her as hieroglyphics; symbols that remained closed and
silent in the face of her persistent efforts to understand.
During an exam in second year, Johanne had what she later
thought of as an epiphany. Suddenly the numbers meant
something. The equations worked. It was a glimpse into an
unknown world, an existence where strict logic ruled. The
answers were at the end of a beautiful pattern of symbols
and figures. The teacher leaned over her shoulder; he smelt
of old people and camphor sweets. He whispered:
'There you go, Johanne. See! The young lady has seen
the light!'
And that's exactly what it felt like.
Aksel had talked about Karsten. She didn't react. He
told her about Eva. She listened. Then he mentioned their
surname, almost in passing, in a subordinate clause as the
taxi pulled up in front of the hospital.
There was nothing that could surprise her any more.
She felt the hairs rise on her arms. That was all.
Everything fell into place. Karsten Asli was Aksel's son.
'There you go, Johanne,' whispered her maths teacher
and sucked on the sweet in his mouth.
'The young lady has seen the light.'

There were two plain-clothes policemen in the corridor,
but Aksel Seier barely noticed anything or anyone. Johanne
realised that he hadn't yet been told what his son had done.
She made a silent prayer that it could wait, until it was all
over.
She put her hand on Aksel's shoulder. He stopped and
looked her in the eye.
'I've got a story for you,' she said in a low voice.

'Yesterday ... I found out the truth about Hedvig's murder.
You are innocent.'
'/ know that," he said without emotion, and didn't even
blink.
'I'll tell you everything,' Johanne continued. 'When
this
She quickly looked over at Karsten Asli's room.
'When all this is over. Then I'll tell you what actually
happened.'
Aksel put his hand on the door handle.
'And one more thing,' she said, holding him back.
'There's an old lady. She's very ill. It's thanks to her that the
truth has eventually come out. Her name is Alvhild
Sofienberg. I want you to come with me to meet her. Later,
when all this is over. Do you promise me that?'
He gave a slight nod and then went in.
Johanne followed.
Karsten Asli's face was bruised and swollen and was
barely visible among the bright-white sheets, bandages and
gurgling machines that would keep him alive for a few
more hours. Aksel sat down on the only chair in the room.
Johanne went over to the window. She was not interested
in the patient. It was Aksel Seier she looked at when she
turned round again and it was only him she thought of.
You served the sentence for your son, Aksel. You have
atoned for your son's sins. I hope that you'll be able to see
it like that.
Aksel Seier was sitting with his head bent and his hands
folded round Karsten's right hand.

The ceiling was blue. The man in the shop claimed that the dark
colour would make the room seem smaller. He was wrong. Instead
the ceiling was lifted, it nearly disappeared. That's what I wanted
myself, when I was little: a dark night sky with stars and a small
crescent moon over the window. But Granny chose for me then.
Granny and Mum, a boys room in yellow and white.
I think someone's here.
Someone is holding my hand. Its not Mum. She used to do
that, every now and then, when she came into my room at night,
when Granny had gone to bed. Mum always said so little. Other
children were told stories when they went to bed. I always fell
asleep to the sound of my own voice, always. Mum said so little.

Happiness is something I can barely remember, like a light
touch in a crowd of strangers, gone before you we had a chance to
turn round. When the room was finished and it was only two days
until Preben was going to come, I was satisfied. Happiness is a
childish thing and I am, after all, thirty-four. But naturally I was
happy. I was looking forward to it.
The room was ready. There was a little boy sitting on the moon.
With blond hair, a fishing rod made from bamboo with string and
afloat and hook at the end: a star. A drop of gold had dribbled
down towards the window, as if the Heavens were melting.
My son was finally going to come.
It hurts.
It hurts everywhere, a great aching without beginning or end.
I think I'm going to die.
I can't die. On the nineteenth of June I'm going to complete my
project. On Preben s birthday. I lost Preben, but I made up for it
by giving the others what they deserved. They betrayed me.
Everyone always betrays me.

We agreed that he would be called Joakim. He was going to
have my surname. He was going to be called Joakim Asli and I
bought a train. Ellen got angry when I took it to the hospital.
She'd expected some jewellery, I think, as if she'd earned a medal.
I chuff-chuffed the Marklin locomotive over his face and he actually
opened his eyes and smiled. Ellen turned away and said he was just pulling a face.
I would have been an excellent father. I've got it in me.
I'm little, standing on the kitchen table in some winter clothes
that someone has sent me. Later I asked Mummy if it was Daddy
who wanted to give me a present. She never answered. Even
though I was only four, I can remember the stamps, big and foreign;
the brown paper was covered in strange stamps and
markings. The jacket and trousers were blue and light as a feather
and I wanted to go out and play in the snow. Granny pulled them
off. Someone else got the clothes.
Someone else always gets what is mine.
FJlen and the child just disappeared. She hadn 't even registered
me as the father. It took four months before I found out that the boy
was called Preben.
I have to finish. I have to live.
Someone is holding my hand. It's not Mum. It's a man.
I've never had a father. Granny always got a hard look in her
eyes when I asked. Mum looked away. In a smalltown, the fatherless
are given a thousand fathers. New names were constantly
being whispered in corners at school, wherever people gathered and
played. It was unbearable. All I wanted was to know. I didn't
need a father, but I wanted to know. A name was all I needed.
Emilie. She'll die in the cellar. She's mine, just like Preben.
Crete cried and refused and wanted to go back to her home and
family. I was so young then and let her go. I didn't care about the
child. I don't care about her. It was Preben I wanted.
Emilie can die for all I care.
The other children might also have been mine.
I owned their mothers. But they didn'/ understand that.
Someone is holding my hand and there is an angel in the light
by the window.





Author's postscript

In spring 2000, I heard a true story. It was about Ingvald
Hansen, a man who had been sentenced to life in 1938.
Hansen was accused of raping and killing a seven-year-old
girl, Mary. The story, as it was told to me over a table in a
restaurant, was fascinating. There was much to indicate
that the man had been the victim of a miscarriage of justice.
My first impulse was to investigate the case in more
detail. But instead, I was inspired to create this book's
Aksel Seier, another character in another time. Hansen and
Seier share a similar fate on certain crucial points, but they
are of course not the same person. Every-thing I know about
Ingvald Hansen comes from an article written by the professor
of law, Anders Brathom, published in the Norwegian
law journal Tidssk rift for low og rett 2000, pp. 443 ffi, and a
report in Aftenposten on Saturday 4 November 2000.
Evidently Hansen died a couple of years after a surprising
and apparently unexplained release.
Those readers who take the time to read these articles
will see that I have also been inspired by reality on another
point: when Ingvald Hansen applied for a pardon in 1950,
his case was dealt with by a young female lawyer. This
woman, Anne Louise Beer, a former judge in the probate
court in Oslo, is primarily responsible for reviving the interest
in Ingvald Hansen's story. She never forgot the case,
even though circumstances made it impossible for her to
pursue the possibility that the man had been unfairly
imprisoned. According to the articles mentioned above, she

tried to get hold of the case documents in the nineties.
They had vanished without a trace.
I don't know Judge Beer, and as far as I know I have
never met her. Alvhild Sofienberg in this book is, like all
the other characters in the book, entirely fictitious.
However, Alvhild's experience of Aksel's case is, on several
points, very similar to the experiences of Judge Beer in relation
to the Ingvald Hansen case.
The way in which I have 'solved' the mystery of Aksel
Seier in this book is purely imagination. I have absolutely no grounds for saying anything whatsoever about what happened
when Ingvald Hansen was first sentenced and then
later released under peculiar circumstances.
I have had invaluable help from many people while
working on this book. I would particularly like to mention
my brother, Even, who gave me a frightening recipe for
murder when writing his medical doctorate. Berit ReissAndersen
is a very dear friend and wise critic. My thanks
also to my editor and most important adviser, Eva Groner,
and to my Swedish publisher, Ann-Marie Skarp, for their
enthusiastic and valuable support. I would also like to
thank oystein Maeland for his useful contribution. And I
am particularly grateful to Line Lunde, a loyal mainstay
since Blind Goddess. She told me the exciting story that was
the inspiration for Punishment.
And finally, a big thank you to you, Tine.


Cape Cod, 18 April 2001
Anne Holt

The End.