around?’ he asked.
He got a quick nod in reply and left the room. Torunn Borg stayed with the old woman to go through the list of routine questions.
Mother and daughter each had their own bedroom on the ground floor, with a bathroom across the corridor. The first floor didn’t look as though it had been used for a long time. It consisted of a loft room where white sheets had been draped over the furniture, and three locked rooms where old clothes and cardboard boxes of books were stored.
The daughter’s bedroom was the largest. In addition to the single bed with its bedside table, there was just enough room for a writing desk, a small sitting area and a television. Three pictures hung on the walls, all depicting a woman whom Wisting assumed must be Camilla Thaulow. Two were in nurse’s uniform, probably taken in her student days, and a more recent one of her sitting in a verdant garden. Like her mother she had friendly, twinkling eyes that looked directly out of the frame.
He sat beside the desk and pulled out drawer after drawer. The contents were tidy. There were household accounts, insurance papers, income tax returns and old photo albums. Nothing seemed particularly interesting, so he put them aside to go through more thoroughly later.
A book lay on the bedside table, a piece of paper sticking out from between the last pages. Wisting lifted it up. Coincidences by Charlie Lie. The slip of paper marked page 316. It was a folded post-it note with nothing written on it, a chance bookmark. He sat on the bed and leafed back through to the end. She had 32 pages left. Presumably she had thought to finish it yesterday evening.
The drawer of the bedside table contained a packet of lozenges, paper hankies, a tube of hand cream and a poetry collection. Wisting remained seated, looking around, feeling that, somehow, the direction of the case had shifted.
CHAPTER 12
The press conference had begun when Wisting got back to the police station. Through the glass wall and voile curtains of the conference room he saw Audun Vetti holding up two pictures of shoes, one in each hand. The room was full. Journalists sat with laptops on their knees, writing up the first released details. He counted five cameras with red lights.
He walked forward quickly and shut himself into the capacious toilet for the disabled. Turning on the water tap he let it run until it was cold, rinsed his face but felt no better. The mirror above the wash-hand basin showed the face of a tired man and, for the first time, he thought of himself as old. He was 51. His hair had become thinner and lighter, and the corners of his eyes were bracketed by small wrinkles.
This is not a job that keeps you young, he thought, nor is it a job in which you become old.
The team gathered in Wisting’s office as soon as the last of the press corps were out of the building. Torunn sat in one of the visitors’ chairs while Hammer hoisted himself onto the window ledge. He opened the window and let in some cool evening air and the scent of the pale yellow blossoms from the chestnut tree in the back yard. The sounds of an orchestra playing in the outdoor restaurant at the Grand Hotel stole in towards them. The Chief Superintendent stood beside the wall with his arm leaning on the filing cabinet.
Audun Vetti took the last visitors’ chair. ‘I wanted you here at eight o’clock,’ said the Chief Superintendent.
Wisting disregarded him. ‘It’s happened again,’ he said.
Vetti frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We have a new disappearance,’ Wisting explained, and gave an account of his last few hours. ‘She was last seen when she left home yesterday around two o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘What do we do?’ the Chief Superintendent asked, loosening his tie.
‘She drives a red Ford Fiesta,’ said Torunn Borg. ‘The patrols are looking for it along the roads between Stavern and Langangen.’
‘How long should we wait before issuing a public
He got a quick nod in reply and left the room. Torunn Borg stayed with the old woman to go through the list of routine questions.
Mother and daughter each had their own bedroom on the ground floor, with a bathroom across the corridor. The first floor didn’t look as though it had been used for a long time. It consisted of a loft room where white sheets had been draped over the furniture, and three locked rooms where old clothes and cardboard boxes of books were stored.
The daughter’s bedroom was the largest. In addition to the single bed with its bedside table, there was just enough room for a writing desk, a small sitting area and a television. Three pictures hung on the walls, all depicting a woman whom Wisting assumed must be Camilla Thaulow. Two were in nurse’s uniform, probably taken in her student days, and a more recent one of her sitting in a verdant garden. Like her mother she had friendly, twinkling eyes that looked directly out of the frame.
He sat beside the desk and pulled out drawer after drawer. The contents were tidy. There were household accounts, insurance papers, income tax returns and old photo albums. Nothing seemed particularly interesting, so he put them aside to go through more thoroughly later.
A book lay on the bedside table, a piece of paper sticking out from between the last pages. Wisting lifted it up. Coincidences by Charlie Lie. The slip of paper marked page 316. It was a folded post-it note with nothing written on it, a chance bookmark. He sat on the bed and leafed back through to the end. She had 32 pages left. Presumably she had thought to finish it yesterday evening.
The drawer of the bedside table contained a packet of lozenges, paper hankies, a tube of hand cream and a poetry collection. Wisting remained seated, looking around, feeling that, somehow, the direction of the case had shifted.
CHAPTER 12
The press conference had begun when Wisting got back to the police station. Through the glass wall and voile curtains of the conference room he saw Audun Vetti holding up two pictures of shoes, one in each hand. The room was full. Journalists sat with laptops on their knees, writing up the first released details. He counted five cameras with red lights.
He walked forward quickly and shut himself into the capacious toilet for the disabled. Turning on the water tap he let it run until it was cold, rinsed his face but felt no better. The mirror above the wash-hand basin showed the face of a tired man and, for the first time, he thought of himself as old. He was 51. His hair had become thinner and lighter, and the corners of his eyes were bracketed by small wrinkles.
This is not a job that keeps you young, he thought, nor is it a job in which you become old.
The team gathered in Wisting’s office as soon as the last of the press corps were out of the building. Torunn sat in one of the visitors’ chairs while Hammer hoisted himself onto the window ledge. He opened the window and let in some cool evening air and the scent of the pale yellow blossoms from the chestnut tree in the back yard. The sounds of an orchestra playing in the outdoor restaurant at the Grand Hotel stole in towards them. The Chief Superintendent stood beside the wall with his arm leaning on the filing cabinet.
Audun Vetti took the last visitors’ chair. ‘I wanted you here at eight o’clock,’ said the Chief Superintendent.
Wisting disregarded him. ‘It’s happened again,’ he said.
Vetti frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We have a new disappearance,’ Wisting explained, and gave an account of his last few hours. ‘She was last seen when she left home yesterday around two o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘What do we do?’ the Chief Superintendent asked, loosening his tie.
‘She drives a red Ford Fiesta,’ said Torunn Borg. ‘The patrols are looking for it along the roads between Stavern and Langangen.’
‘How long should we wait before issuing a public
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