When The Devil Holds The Candle

called a suspicious death. Forensics take pictures of the cell. The prison staff are interviewed. Was the cell locked? Did anyone visit him? Was he depressed? And if so, had he seen a doctor? Forensics handle the case after that.'

'Do you feel responsible?' she asked softly. He shrugged. Did he?

'He was very cooperative,' he said. 'Almost too much so. He was eager to get through everything. He had plans. He had even managed to eat something, for the first time in days. I don't work at the prison. But I should have known.'

'You're not a mind reader,' she said. He looked at her. 'But you would have known, wouldn't you?'

She leaned against the doorframe. 'I've lost a number of patients.'

'Yes?'

'But it's true that I would have been on the alert. They often seem to liven up at the same time as they become suicidal. Because they've finally made a decision and can see an end to their despair. When patients come to us and want their medication decreased or ask to be allowed out, we're usually on the alert. But Robert was not a psychiatric patient. He was in prison.'

'I've learned something, anyway.'

'You're not a doctor,' she said gently. 'Have you told Anita's parents?'

'I talked to her father. He was very upset. Said he hoped it wasn't because of them. They didn't feel any resentment towards him. I don't think they had enough strength left for that.'

Sara disappeared into the kitchen and he could hear the water starting to boil in a pan. Ten minutes later she called him. He washed his hands and sat at the table. It was lovely to sit quietly with Sara. She was capable of leading her own life, even though he was barely a metre away, capable of thinking her own thoughts without including him. Her face took on many amusing expressions as she followed her train of thoughts. He cast a swift glance at her every time he reached for the salt or pepper. He sprinkled a generous portion of Parmesan over his spaghetti.

'Sara. Your job is to make people talk. About themselves. About difficult subjects. How do you get them to talk?'

She smiled in surprise. 'But you've conducted hundreds of interviews and interrogations. Don't tell me that you don't know how to do your job.'

'No, but sometimes I get stuck when I'm talking to someone. And I sit there and know that he knows! And I simply don't have the power to get anything out of him.'

'That happens to me too.'

'But still. What method do you use to get inside them?'

'Time.'

'Ah. But I don't have time! An 18-year-old has disappeared without trace and his one close friend is so frightened that he practically faints on my desk. But then he purses his lips the way Ingrid used to when we tried to get her to take cod-liver oil.'

'There's a gate to every garden,' she said cryptically.

He had to smile in spite of himself.

'And if an exception shows up, then you have to jump over the fence.'

'I'm a police officer. There are rules that I have to follow.'

'Imagination is a good thing.'

'Don't I have any imagination?'

'Of course you do. But you don't use it. How many times have you asked him to come in?'

'Twice.'

'And where do you meet?'

'In my office. We need a backdrop of authority. So the suspects understand that it's serious.' She picked up the ketchup bottle and shook it vigorously over her spaghetti.

'Invite him out for a beer. Go to the bar where he went with Andreas. Find the same table. Wear some other clothes. Jeans and a leather jacket. Couldn't you let your hair grow a little longer, Konrad? I have a feeling that it would curl around your ears if you only gave it a chance.' He opened his eyes wide. 'What is it with girls and curly hair? Just leave the dishes. I'll do them.'

'I'm going over to see Pappa,' she said. 'I need to make sure he has food in the fridge.' There was that word again, that always made him feel embarrassed. Pappa. A familiar tiny pang.

'How is he taking it? That he's alone so much?'

'Do you have a guilty conscience?'

'Maybe he needs you more than I do.'

'Don't you need me?' she said.

He looked at her in confusion. 'Of course I do. I just meant because he's ill. I can take care of myself.'

'Can you?'

He couldn't see what she was getting at. He looked at her face and then at the mound of spaghetti, searching for a clue. Of course he needed her. But he couldn't avoid thinking about her father, who had MS, sitting alone in his wheelchair. And the fact that he had taken Sara from him. Well, she wasn't always at his place, but increasingly often.

'I need you terribly,' he said.

'More than my father,' she said. 'You need me more than my father does. Say it out loud!' But he didn't say a word. He was trying to imagine what his life would be like if she were suddenly to disappear. Deep inside he was preparing for that. Would he survive it? Was he really expecting her to leave soon? Was he reluctant to give himself to her wholeheartedly? How much did she need him? She was so independent. Seemed as if she could handle anything. But could he be mistaken? He wasn't the one she needed, not really. He didn't want to play. Sooner or later she would find someone else, a younger man. Someone like Jacob, it crossed his mind. God help me, what am I thinking? I'm actually jealous. Of everyone who's younger and freer than I am.

'You have to forgive me,' he said. 'I'm a little slow.'

He sat there, feeling puzzled, and looking at her. And in her eyes he saw something that took his breath away. An overwhelming tenderness. He had to bow his head. It was too much for him. They finished their meal in silence. But now he was inside her head, he could feel it. When they had finished, he washed the dishes. The phone rang. It was Jacob's eager voice, mixed with some kind of atonal ruckus. Sejer had to shout into the receiver.

'I can't hear you! Could you turn down that noise? Are you calling from home?'

'Jazz from Hell!' Jacob shouted back. 'Frank Zappa. Is that what you call noise?'

Sejer could hear the receiver being put down on a hard surface. The noise vanished.

'I've been out to visit Mrs Winther's friend,' Jacob said, breathing hard. 'Konrad, there's something about that old lady! Excuse the expression, but I wonder if she's off her trolley, plain and simple, nuts.'

'I see,' Sejer said, waiting for Jacob to continue.

'You have to go and talk to her!'

'What?'

'She knows something. I could tell that something odd has been going on. I can't explain it. But as your mother used to say: I just know!'

'It's late,' Sejer began. 'I've got other things . . . Robert's parents . . .'

'I know. But she went to the station, and she called. She says cryptic things: that she knows where he is, that he won't live long and God knows what else. You've got to check her out!'

'She says that she knows where he is?'

'Without mentioning his name. But she knows. You have to talk to her. I don't have any real theory, but I just think the set-up is weird. What's more, she knows him, he's her friend's son.'

'But you were there yourself, weren't you? Did you find anything, or didn't you?'

'I found out that you have to talk to her. You have to experience it for yourself.'

Sejer quite simply couldn't ignore Skarre's kind of eagerness, his strong intuition. His dog gazed after him, and he thought for a second or two before he made up his mind and called to him. Kollberg raced through the room like a woolly bolt of lightning. Sejer caressed Sara on the cheek as he said goodbye and then walked down all 13