Don't Look Back

'I don't think she tells you everything.'

'I would have known!'

'But you're not much good at talking about things like that!'

The mood was tense. Sejer made his own assumption and saw from Skarre's notebook that he had too.

'If she was going to work on a school project, she must have taken a bag along.'

'A brown leather bag. Where is it?'

'We haven't found it.'

So we'll have to send out the divers, he thought.

'Was she taking any kind of medication?'

'Nothing. She was never ill.'

'What kind of girl was she? Open? Talkative?'

'Used to be,' the husband said.

'What do you mean?'

'It was just her age,' the mother said. 'She was at a difficult age.'

'Do you mean she had changed?' Sejer turned again to the father in order to cut the mother off. It didn't work.

'All girls change at that age. They're about to grow up. Solvi was the same way. Solvi is her sister,' she added.

The husband didn't reply; he still looked numb.

'So she was not an open and talkative girl?'

'She was quiet and modest,' the mother said. 'Meticulous and fair-minded. Had her life under control.'

'But she used to be more lively?'

'They make more of a fuss when they're young.'

'What I need to know,' Sejer said, 'is approximately when she changed?'

'At the normal time. When she was about 14. Puberty,' she said, as if to explain.

He nodded, staring again at the father.

'There was no other reason for the change?'

'What would that be?' the mother said quickly.

'I don't know.' He sighed a little and leaned back. 'But I'm trying to find out why she died.'

The mother began shaking so violently that they almost couldn't understand what she said. 'Why she died? But it must be some…'

She didn't dare say the word.

'We don't know.'

'But was she…' Another pause.

'We don't know, Mrs Holland. Not yet. These things take time. But the people who are tending to Annie know what they're doing.'

He looked around the room, which was neat and clean, blue and white like Annie's clothing had been. Wreaths of dried flowers above the doors, lace curtains. Photographs. Crocheted doilies. Harmonious, tidy and proper. He stood up and went over to a large photograph on the wall.

'That was taken last winter.'

The mother came over to him. He lifted the picture down carefully and stared at it. He was amazed every time he saw a face again that he had seen only devoid of life or lustre. The same person and yet not the same. Annie had a wide face with a large mouth and big grey eyes. Thick, dark eyebrows. She had a shy smile. At the bottom edge of the picture he saw the collar of her shirt and a glimpse of her boyfriend's medallion. Pretty, he thought.

'Was she involved in sports?'

'Used to be,' the father said in a low voice.

'She played handball,' the mother said sadly. 'But she gave it up. Now she runs a lot. More than 20 miles a week.'

'Why did she stop playing handball?'

'She's had so much homework lately. That's the way kids are, you know, they try out something and then they give it up. She tried playing in the school band too, the cornet. But she quit.'

'Was she good? At handball?'

He hung the picture back on the wall.

'Very good,' said the father softly. 'She was the goalkeeper. She shouldn't have stopped.'

'I think she thought it was boring to stand at the net,' the mother said. 'I think that's why.'

'That may not be the reason,' replied her husband. 'She never told us why.'

Sejer sat down again.

'So you both reacted to her decision in the same way? Thought it was… strange?'

'Yes.'

'Did she do well at school?'

'Better than most. I'm not boasting, it's just a fact,' he said.

'This project that the girls were working on, what was it about?'

'Sigrid Undset. It was due at Midsummer.'

'Could I see her room?'

The mother got up and led the way, taking short, shuffling steps. Her husband stayed seated on the armrest, motionless.

The room was tiny, but it had been her own little hideaway. Just enough space for a bed, desk and chair. He looked out the window and stared straight across the street at the neighbour's porch. The orange house. The remains of a sheaf of oats set out for the birds bristled below the window. He searched the walls for teen idols, but found none. On the other hand, the room was full of trophies, certificates and medals; and there were a few pictures of Annie. One picture of her in her goalie's uniform with the rest of the team, and another of her standing on a windsurfing board, looking in fine form. On the wall over the bed she had several photos of little children, one of her pushing a pram, and one of a young man. Sejer pointed.

'Her boyfriend?'

The mother nodded.

'Did she work with children?'

He pointed to a picture of Annie holding a blond toddler on her lap. In the picture she looked proud and happy. She was holding the boy up to the camera, almost like a trophy.

'She babysat for all the children on the street, one after the other.'

'So she liked children?'

She nodded again.

'Did she keep a diary, Mrs Holland?'

'I don't think so. I looked for one,' she admitted. 'I looked all night.'

'You didn't find anything?'

She shook her head. From the living room they could hear a low murmur.

'We need a list of names,' he said after a moment. 'Of people we can talk to.'

He looked at the photos on the wall again and studied Annie's uniform, black with a green emblem on the chest.

'That looks like a dragon or something.'

'It's a sea serpent,' she explained quietly.

'Why a sea serpent?'

'There's supposed to be a sea serpent in the fjord here. It's a legend, a story from the old days. If you're out rowing and hear a splashing sound behind your boat, that's the sea serpent rising up from the depths. You should never look back, just be careful to keep on rowing. If you pretend to ignore it and leave it in peace, everything will be fine, but if you look back into its eyes, it will pull you down into the great darkness. According to legend, it has red eyes.'

They went back to the living room. Skarre was still taking notes. The husband was still perched on the armrest. He looked as if he was about to collapse.