doesn't want us to. Unfortunately, those are the rules. He's an adult . . . Goodbye, Mrs Winther.'
*
Ingrid Sejer was sitting in front of the television, watching the evening news. Matteus stood behind her chair, staring at the screen, barefoot and wearing thin pyjamas. His mother turned round and saw him.
'Matteus. It's late,' she said.
He nodded, but he stayed where he was. His mother looked a little depressed. She put her hands on his thin shoulders.
'What are you eating?'
'A liquorice Porsche.'
She smiled sadly. 'Pappa says that I shouldn't pressure you, but I wish you would tell us who wrote that note. That awful note in your school bag.'
'It doesn't bother me,' he said.
'It doesn't frighten you?'
'No,' he said. She gave him a searching look, surprised at his reaction, and realised that she believed him, though she wasn't sure why.
'I'm not going to run to the headmaster and tell him, or anything like that,' she said. 'If you tell me who wrote it. And I won't call his mother. Or hers, if it's a girl. I just need to know.'
Matteus was fighting a silent battle. It was hard when his mother begged him like that.
'All right,' he said at last. 'It was Tommy.' His mother was struck dumb. She sat for a moment with her eyes wide, shaking her head.
'Tommy?' she stammered in confusion. 'But he's. . . he's from Ethiopia. His skin is darker than yours!'
'I know,' Matteus said, shrugging.
'But why would Tommy, of all . . .' She started to giggle. Matteus giggled too, and they were both laughing hysterically. His mother hugged him, and Matteus didn't understand why she was so happy. But she was. She stood up and got him a glass of Coke. Then she sat down again to watch the news, from time to time shaking her head. Matteus was on the sofa. Imitating the grown-ups, he opened the paper and found himself looking at a photograph of a young man with dark curls. He was smiling at Matteus with white teeth. In the picture he looked nice, much nicer than he had that day in the green car. It was him, he was sure of it.
'Why is this boy in the newspaper?' he asked.
His mother glanced at the photograph and read the story underneath.
'Because he's missing,' she told him.
'What do you mean, missing?' he wanted to know.
'Missing, gone, disappeared,' she explained.
'Gone like Great-Grandmother?'
'No. Or rather, they don't know. He left his home and never came back.'
'He's driving around in a green car,' Matteus told her.
'What are you talking about?' She gave him a doubtful look.
'Him and another boy. In a green car. They asked me how to get to the bowling alley.'
'Is that one of the boys who were bothering you down the street the other day? When you came home from the party?'
'Yes.'
'Are you sure?'
'I'm sure.'
She grabbed the newspaper and read the text again. Missing since September 1.
'I have to call your grandfather,' she said.
'But I don't know where he is now,' Matteus said, sounding worried.
'That doesn't matter. I still have to call him. Go to bed now.'
'I want to talk to Grandpa.'
'You can have two minutes.' She dialled her father's number and waited.
Skarre was chewing on his pen. It was leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. How could someone just disappear off the face of the earth like that? At the same time, he was thinking of what Sejer had said. There's always someone who knows something.
And Zipp knew. His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.
'Criminal Division. Jacob Skarre.' There was a strange rushing sound on the line. He listened for a moment, waiting.
'Hello? . . . Hello?'
The silence continued. Just the faint rushing sound. He could have hung up – they had plenty of calls when people never said a word – but he decided to wait.
'You'd better come soon. He probably won't live much longer!'
There was a click. The conversation was over. Skarre sat there bewildered, holding the phone. A woman. She sounded hysterical, almost tearful. And at that instant something occurred to him. He stood up so fast that his chair fell and went clattering into the filing cabinet behind him. Those words. That despair! Where had he heard them before? He leaned against the cabinet, thinking. That hoarse voice, it reminded him of something, if only he could remember. Something recent. He sat at his desk again. Thought hard. But he couldn't pin it down. How could he make himself remember?
He tried thinking of something else. Finally it came back to him what she had actually said. He probably won't live much longer. Did it have to do with Andreas Winther? Why did he think of Andreas? He fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. A folded piece of paper came out with it. He unfolded it. 'A woman of about 60 arrives at the office at 4 p.m. She seems confused.' And then he remembered. The confused woman in the brown coat who had come to see him the previous day.
The phone rang again.
'This is Runi Winther. I just want to apologise for being such a pest.'
Skarre cleared his throat. 'That's quite all right, Mrs Winther. We know this is difficult for you.'
'Have you talked to my friend?'
'Not yet.'
'But you promised!'
'I will see her. Tomorrow, Mrs Winther.'
'She'll vouch for him. She has to!'
'As far as Andreas' conduct is concerned, we have no reason to believe that it's anything but what it should be.'
'But I want you to hear it from someone who knows him.'
'All right, Mrs Winther. No, call us by all means, that's why we're here. Fine.'
Sejer put his head round the door. 'I wonder what those two have been up to. Zipp is lying about the time. They were seen together at 6.15.'
'And I wonder,' Skarre said grimly, 'whether we could be running out of time.'
C H A P T E R 1 9
September 6.
Skarre drove along the river, turned left off a roundabout and changed down into second gear at the bottom of a steep hill. He didn't often come to this part of town, but he liked the neighbourhood, the overgrown hedges and the craggy apple trees. Prins Oscars gate.
