'He didn't want one.'
'Has he ever been gone overnight before?'
'Surely that doesn't have anything to do with it,' the woman replied, sounding sullen.
'Well, yes,' said Skarre. 'Actually, it does.'
'So that you can file the report at the bottom of the pile and treat it as less important?'
'Your son is an adult,' said Skarre calmly, trying to balance on the knife edge this woman represented.
'There's adult and adult,' she said.
'I mean from a legal standpoint, and that's how we have to regard him too. You'll have to forgive all the questions, but I'm sure you understand that since your son is of age, and no doubt capable of taking care of himself, at this point we can't regard the situation as particularly dramatic. If he were a child, things would be different. I'm sure you agree, don't you?' His voice was exceedingly kind.
'But he always comes home.'
'And I'm certain he will this time too. Most people turn up pretty quickly. Some are shattered after a trip on the boat from Denmark, or a party that got a little too wild. Has that ever happened before?' he asked.
'The boat to Denmark?' She gave him a wounded look. 'He can't afford things like that. But it has happened before,' she admitted. 'Once. Maybe twice. But it's not something he usually does.'
'I'm sure we'll sort this out. Together,' he added, as a way of offering hope and encouragement. She opened her handbag and took out a photograph. Skarre studied it. Andreas was an unusually handsome young man. Of course his mother would be worried.
'Who took the picture?' he asked with curiosity.
'Why do you ask?' she snapped.
'No reason.' He shrugged. 'I was just trying to be friendly. In my own clumsy way.'
'Forgive me,' she whispered. 'I'm not myself. I got up at 8.00 and went to his room to wake him. He works at the Cash & Carry. I noticed that his bed hadn't been slept in. I waited until 10.00 to call the shop. He works in the hardware department, but he hadn't come in. He has skipped work before, I admit that.'
'Are you angry with him?' Skarre asked. 'Because he subjects you to these disappearing acts of his?'
'Of course I'm angry!' she said.
'More angry than scared?' He fixed his blue eyes on her.
'He's missing,' she said in a low voice. 'Now at least I've done something about it.'
'I'll write up a report. Let me borrow the photograph. We'll send it out for distribution. At first to the PT.'
'And what's that?'
'The police news bulletin. We have contact with the central authorities in all the Nordic countries. We live in a computer age now, you know. How's that for a start?'
'What about the TV and newspapers?' she ventured.
'Maybe not right away. It's someone else's responsibility to make that decision.' He smiled.
'I'm just a simple police officer.' He rolled up his sleeves. He didn't want her to think they weren't on top of things. If she only knew.
'What was he wearing?'
'Cotton trousers, a very pale colour. A T-shirt, with a light-coloured shirt on top, probably the yellow one. I didn't see him when he left, just heard him call from the hall, but the yellow shirt isn't in his wardrobe. And black shoes. He's goodlooking,' she added.
'Yes,' said Skarre, smiling. 'And what about his father? What does he say?'
'He doesn't know about it.'
'Is he out of town?'
'He moved out,' she murmured.
'Maybe he ought to know about this?'
'I'm not the one who's going to tell him.' She closed down a bit. Skarre gave her a searching look.
'It would be good if we could work on this together. Isn't there a chance that he's with his father?'
'Not a chance in hell!' she said vehemently.
'Have you called his friends?'
'He only has one. They were together last night. I tried to call him, but no-one answered. I'll try again.'
'Do you think your son might be there?'
'No. I know his mother, and she would have sent him home.'
'So in point of fact both of them might be missing?'
'I have no idea. I have enough to worry about with my own son.'
'I'll need his father's name,' Skarre said. 'And the name of this friend. And their phone numbers. If it's difficult for you to contact the father, I can do it for you.'
She thought for a moment, weighing up her options. Maybe it was a confrontation that she had been fearing for a long time. Diving down into the mud that had finally settled.
'What will you do now?' she asked.
'I have made an official note of your report. We'll contact you if anything turns up. I suggest that you stay at home in case he calls.'
'I can't just sit at home and wait. I can't bear it.'
'Do you have a job?'
'Part-time. Today is my day off.'
'Try not to be cross. That may not be what he needs when he does get home.'
'What do you mean? You're not worried about him? You think he's gone off on the boat to Denmark?'
'No,' Skarre said wearily. 'That's not what I'm saying. Let's just wait and see. Perhaps he's at home waiting for you now.'
He reminded himself that this was what he had wanted, what he had always dreamed of doing. Helping people.
'Do you have any family you could talk to? Who could offer you some support?'
Mrs Winther rubbed one eye. She heard a little clicking sound as her poor eyeball rolled around in its socket.
'I need a taxi. Could you call one for me?' Skarre put the form inside a plastic folder, called the switchboard and asked for a taxi.
'Please call and let me know when your son does turn up. Don't forget.'
He put special emphasis on the word 'when'. And then Mrs Winther left. She strode solemnly into the corridor with the air of someone who was carrying out an unpleasant obligation for no pay. Skarre sat and stared at the photograph. Andreas Winther, he thought. Go ahead and admit it.
You're lying under a duvet somewhere with a damn great hangover. Next to a girl whose name you can't remember. I'll bet she's sweet, or at least she was yesterday. You summon what strength you have left to think up an excuse for why you've missed work. Terrible headache. Coming down with a fever. With looks like that you could undoubtedly charm your boss into forgiving you. Whether it's a man or a woman.
Konrad Sejer was standing in the doorway.
Skarre never failed to be struck by how tall he was. So eminently present. Sejer sat down with an expression that could have been crafted with his own hands. Then he leaned down and pulled up his socks. The ribbing around the tops was loose.
'Anything going on?'
He caught sight of the photograph. Picked it up and studied it closely.
'Probably not. But he's a handsome young man. Missing since yesterday. Andreas Winther. Lives with his mother.'
'Looks quite a charmer. Find out if he's attracted any attention in town.'
'It's a good thing that Mrs Winther can't hear you.
'I'm sure he'll turn up soon. There's something about young men and their mother's cooking.' Sejer was only moderately interested. There were many other things – some of them serious cases – that preoccupied him. Robert, for one, who was insisting on pleading guilty to the murder of Anita.
To the despair of his defence lawyer. It will sort itself out, Sejer thought. Press on home, Andreas.
*
