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 being given 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 Oksøy 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.”
Tønnes Selbu ran his hand over Emilie’s bed, over the letters she had written in felt-tip pen on the blond wood when she was learning the alphabet. He wanted to bury his face in her pajamas. 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.
Tønnes 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.
F IFTEEN
A man approached the row 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, turtleneck 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 May 19 and a mild southwesterly wind had brought warmer temperatures of around 57 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 pants. 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 pants. He stood completely still for a couple of minutes. His ears were buzzing 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.
S IXTEEN
I t was already late when Johanne got up on Saturday, May 20. At least for Kristiane. The child woke up at the crack of dawn, weekdays and weekends alike. Though the six-year-old obviously liked being on her own first thing in the
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 being given 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 Oksøy 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.”
Tønnes Selbu ran his hand over Emilie’s bed, over the letters she had written in felt-tip pen on the blond wood when she was learning the alphabet. He wanted to bury his face in her pajamas. 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.
Tønnes 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.
F IFTEEN
A man approached the row 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, turtleneck 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 May 19 and a mild southwesterly wind had brought warmer temperatures of around 57 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 pants. 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 pants. He stood completely still for a couple of minutes. His ears were buzzing 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.
S IXTEEN
I t was already late when Johanne got up on Saturday, May 20. At least for Kristiane. The child woke up at the crack of dawn, weekdays and weekends alike. Though the six-year-old obviously liked being on her own first thing in the
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