two-week-old baby and more than enough to keep me busy without taking on a major role in a difficult murder investigation!”
“Okay, okay, I said it was all right.” He stood up suddenly and got two dessert bowls out of the cabinet. “Fruit salad,” he said. “Do you want some?”
“Adam, honestly. Sit down. We can . . . I am perfectly willing to discuss the cases. Like now, in the evening, when the girls have gone to bed. But both you and I know that profiling work is extremely demanding, and so far-reaching that—”
“You know what,” he interrupted and banged a bowl of whipped cream down so hard on the table that the cream jumped. “Fiona Helle’s death is one thing. A tragedy. She was a mother and a wife and far too young to die. Victoria Heinerback didn’t have any children, but I still think that twenty-six is too young to die. But all that aside, people die. People get killed.” He stroked his nose, his straight, beautifully shaped nose with nostrils that quivered when he, on rare occasions, got really angry.
“For God’s sake, people are killed every second day in this country. But what upsets me, what really frightens me . . .”
Alarmed by his own choice of words, he hesitated before repeating himself. “Frightened. I’m frightened, Johanne. I don’t understand these cases. There are so many similarities between them that I can’t help wondering . . .”
“When the next victim will be killed,” Johanne helped him, as he still couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Exactly. And that’s why I’m asking for your help. I know that it’s a lot to ask. I know that you’ve got more than enough on your plate with Kristiane and Ragnhild and your mother and the house and—”
“Okay.”
“What?”
“Fine. I’ll see how much I can manage.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes. But then I need all the facts. About both cases. And I want it to be clear from the start that I can pull out at any point.”
“Whenever,” he nodded in confirmation. “Should I . . . I can catch a cab down to the office and—”
“It’s nearly half past ten.”
Her laughter was lame. But it was still laughter, Adam thought. He studied her face for signs of irritation, small twitches in her lower lips, a muscle that drew a shadow along her cheekbone. But all he could see was dimples and a long yawn.
“I’m just going to check the children,” she said.
He loved the way she walked. She was slim without being thin. Even now, only a couple of weeks after giving birth, she moved with a boyish lightness that made him smile. She had narrow hips, straight shoulders. When she bent down over Ragnhild, her hair fell across her face, soft and tangled. She pushed it back behind her ear and said something. Ragnhild was snoring gently.
He followed her into Kristiane’s room. She opened the door with great care. The little girl was asleep with her head at the foot of the bed, the duvet underneath her, and her down jacket over her like a duvet. Her breathing was steady and even. A faint smell of sleep and clean bed linens filled the room, and Adam put his arm around Johanne.
“Well, it certainly worked,” she whispered. He could hear she was smiling. “The magic worked.”
“Thank you,” he whispered back.
“For what?” Johanne stood still. Adam didn’t let go of her. A feeling of unease that she had tried to repress all afternoon overwhelmed her. She had first noticed it around one, when Adam called to explain why he would be so late, and she shrugged it off. She was always fretting. About the children, about her mother who had started to get confused after her father’s third heart attack and didn’t always remember what day it was, about whether she would ever get back to her research. About the mortgage and the bad brakes on the car. About Isak’s easygoing attitude when it came to discipline, and about the war in the Middle East. There was always something to worry about. This afternoon she had tried
“Okay, okay, I said it was all right.” He stood up suddenly and got two dessert bowls out of the cabinet. “Fruit salad,” he said. “Do you want some?”
“Adam, honestly. Sit down. We can . . . I am perfectly willing to discuss the cases. Like now, in the evening, when the girls have gone to bed. But both you and I know that profiling work is extremely demanding, and so far-reaching that—”
“You know what,” he interrupted and banged a bowl of whipped cream down so hard on the table that the cream jumped. “Fiona Helle’s death is one thing. A tragedy. She was a mother and a wife and far too young to die. Victoria Heinerback didn’t have any children, but I still think that twenty-six is too young to die. But all that aside, people die. People get killed.” He stroked his nose, his straight, beautifully shaped nose with nostrils that quivered when he, on rare occasions, got really angry.
“For God’s sake, people are killed every second day in this country. But what upsets me, what really frightens me . . .”
Alarmed by his own choice of words, he hesitated before repeating himself. “Frightened. I’m frightened, Johanne. I don’t understand these cases. There are so many similarities between them that I can’t help wondering . . .”
“When the next victim will be killed,” Johanne helped him, as he still couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Exactly. And that’s why I’m asking for your help. I know that it’s a lot to ask. I know that you’ve got more than enough on your plate with Kristiane and Ragnhild and your mother and the house and—”
“Okay.”
“What?”
“Fine. I’ll see how much I can manage.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes. But then I need all the facts. About both cases. And I want it to be clear from the start that I can pull out at any point.”
“Whenever,” he nodded in confirmation. “Should I . . . I can catch a cab down to the office and—”
“It’s nearly half past ten.”
Her laughter was lame. But it was still laughter, Adam thought. He studied her face for signs of irritation, small twitches in her lower lips, a muscle that drew a shadow along her cheekbone. But all he could see was dimples and a long yawn.
“I’m just going to check the children,” she said.
He loved the way she walked. She was slim without being thin. Even now, only a couple of weeks after giving birth, she moved with a boyish lightness that made him smile. She had narrow hips, straight shoulders. When she bent down over Ragnhild, her hair fell across her face, soft and tangled. She pushed it back behind her ear and said something. Ragnhild was snoring gently.
He followed her into Kristiane’s room. She opened the door with great care. The little girl was asleep with her head at the foot of the bed, the duvet underneath her, and her down jacket over her like a duvet. Her breathing was steady and even. A faint smell of sleep and clean bed linens filled the room, and Adam put his arm around Johanne.
“Well, it certainly worked,” she whispered. He could hear she was smiling. “The magic worked.”
“Thank you,” he whispered back.
“For what?” Johanne stood still. Adam didn’t let go of her. A feeling of unease that she had tried to repress all afternoon overwhelmed her. She had first noticed it around one, when Adam called to explain why he would be so late, and she shrugged it off. She was always fretting. About the children, about her mother who had started to get confused after her father’s third heart attack and didn’t always remember what day it was, about whether she would ever get back to her research. About the mortgage and the bad brakes on the car. About Isak’s easygoing attitude when it came to discipline, and about the war in the Middle East. There was always something to worry about. This afternoon she had tried
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