self-consciously around his waist, he decided that his first step was visiting the apartment block where his daughter lived. Had lived. He had to do something with that apartment. It was out of the question she should ever move back there. But he wouldn’t force her to make a decision yet. They had plenty of time. For the moment.
He felt clean and lighter than his weight of approximately one hundred kilos. It was drizzling outside, but the delicate canopy of cloud was unable to turn down the thermostat. It remained far too warm for the time of year. Even in the middle of July, eighteen degrees Celsius at eight o’clock in the morning would be impressive. At this season it was almost terrifying. Perhaps there was something in all that talk about the ozone layer.
With less difficulty than usual, he got into the car, illegally parked in a disability parking bay. The training session had benefited him. He should do it more often. He needed to sharpen up.
Fourteen minutes later he found a parking space large enough, only fifty meters away from his daughter’s address. Looking at his watch again, he realized it was a bit early to disturb anyone. The ones who were going to work would certainly not have time to talk to him. Those who were staying at home were probably not yet up. To kill time, he grabbed a couple of tabloids from a newsstand and stepped into a bakery already tempting busy morning people with the delicious aroma of fresh bread and buns.
After three bread rolls, a quarter liter of milk, and two cups of coffee, it was late enough to make a start. He headed for the car to insert more coins into the parking meter before approachingthe building. Fishing out his keys, he let himself into the apartment block. There were two apartments on each floor and five stories in total. It was just as easy to start on the ground.
A homemade porcelain plaque announced that Hans Christiansen and Lena Ødegård lived in the apartment on the left. He stood to attention and peremptorily rang the doorbell. No answer. He tried again, but there was still no sound.
Not a good start. Well, he would just have to return in the afternoon. On the door directly opposite, there was no nameplate at all. At the entrance door, he had noticed that a foreigner lived there. It was impossible for him to ascertain whether it was the name of a woman or a man. Whoever it was obviously hadn’t found it necessary to replace the nameplate previously adorning the door—a lighter area was clearly outlined on the wood, with a screw hole at either end.
An audible buzzing sounded inside the apartment when he pressed the doorbell, followed by the patter of footsteps just inside the door. But nothing happened. Bzzzz. He tried again. Still no reaction, but he was now convinced there was somebody there. Irritated, he rang one more time, for quite a long period. Discourteously long, he thought, as he rang yet again.
Eventually the door chain rattled, and the door opened a chink. The chain prevented it from opening more than ten centimeters. Inside stood a woman. She was petite, perhaps just over five feet in height. Her clothes were dowdy, cheap, and probably fashioned from one hundred percent synthetic fabrics. They glistened in a glimmer of light radiating from someplace or other. The woman looked terrified.
“You police?”
“No, I’m not from the police,” he said, attempting to smile as kindly and encouragingly as possible.
“You not police, you not come in,” the little woman said, trying to shut the door.
Quick as a flash, he moved his foot into the tiny opening, just in time to prevent the door from closing completely. He regretted his action when he saw the terror in her eyes.
“Relax,” he ventured in desperation. “Take it easy, I just want to speak to you for a moment. I’m Kristine Håverstad’s father. The girl on the second floor. Just above here.
“Second floor,” he repeated, trying to make her understand. Then he realized he
He felt clean and lighter than his weight of approximately one hundred kilos. It was drizzling outside, but the delicate canopy of cloud was unable to turn down the thermostat. It remained far too warm for the time of year. Even in the middle of July, eighteen degrees Celsius at eight o’clock in the morning would be impressive. At this season it was almost terrifying. Perhaps there was something in all that talk about the ozone layer.
With less difficulty than usual, he got into the car, illegally parked in a disability parking bay. The training session had benefited him. He should do it more often. He needed to sharpen up.
Fourteen minutes later he found a parking space large enough, only fifty meters away from his daughter’s address. Looking at his watch again, he realized it was a bit early to disturb anyone. The ones who were going to work would certainly not have time to talk to him. Those who were staying at home were probably not yet up. To kill time, he grabbed a couple of tabloids from a newsstand and stepped into a bakery already tempting busy morning people with the delicious aroma of fresh bread and buns.
After three bread rolls, a quarter liter of milk, and two cups of coffee, it was late enough to make a start. He headed for the car to insert more coins into the parking meter before approachingthe building. Fishing out his keys, he let himself into the apartment block. There were two apartments on each floor and five stories in total. It was just as easy to start on the ground.
A homemade porcelain plaque announced that Hans Christiansen and Lena Ødegård lived in the apartment on the left. He stood to attention and peremptorily rang the doorbell. No answer. He tried again, but there was still no sound.
Not a good start. Well, he would just have to return in the afternoon. On the door directly opposite, there was no nameplate at all. At the entrance door, he had noticed that a foreigner lived there. It was impossible for him to ascertain whether it was the name of a woman or a man. Whoever it was obviously hadn’t found it necessary to replace the nameplate previously adorning the door—a lighter area was clearly outlined on the wood, with a screw hole at either end.
An audible buzzing sounded inside the apartment when he pressed the doorbell, followed by the patter of footsteps just inside the door. But nothing happened. Bzzzz. He tried again. Still no reaction, but he was now convinced there was somebody there. Irritated, he rang one more time, for quite a long period. Discourteously long, he thought, as he rang yet again.
Eventually the door chain rattled, and the door opened a chink. The chain prevented it from opening more than ten centimeters. Inside stood a woman. She was petite, perhaps just over five feet in height. Her clothes were dowdy, cheap, and probably fashioned from one hundred percent synthetic fabrics. They glistened in a glimmer of light radiating from someplace or other. The woman looked terrified.
“You police?”
“No, I’m not from the police,” he said, attempting to smile as kindly and encouragingly as possible.
“You not police, you not come in,” the little woman said, trying to shut the door.
Quick as a flash, he moved his foot into the tiny opening, just in time to prevent the door from closing completely. He regretted his action when he saw the terror in her eyes.
“Relax,” he ventured in desperation. “Take it easy, I just want to speak to you for a moment. I’m Kristine Håverstad’s father. The girl on the second floor. Just above here.
“Second floor,” he repeated, trying to make her understand. Then he realized he
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