'What about your other daughter?'
'She's flying home this morning. She's in Trondheim visiting my sister.'
Mrs Holland sank on to the sofa and leaned against her husband. Sejer went to the window and found himself staring right into a face in the kitchen window next door.
'You live close to your neighbours here,' he said. 'Does that mean you know each other well?'
'Quite well. Everyone talks to each other.'
'And everyone knew Annie?'
She nodded wordlessly.
'We'll have to go door to door. Don't let that bother you.'
'We have nothing to be ashamed of.'
'Could you lend us a few pictures?'
The father got up and went over to the shelf under the TV. 'We have a video,' he said. 'From last summer. We were at a cabin in Kragero.'
'They don't need a video,' the mother said. 'Just a picture of her.'
'I'd be glad to have it.' Sejer took it from the father and thanked them.
'She ran 20 miles a week?' he said. 'Did she go alone?'
'No one could keep up with her,' the father said.
'So she made time to run 20 miles a week in spite of her school work. Maybe it wasn't her homework that made her give up handball after all?'
'She could run whenever she liked,' said the mother. 'Sometimes she'd go out before breakfast. But if there was a game, she had to show up, and she couldn't make her own plans. I don't think she liked being tied down. She was very independent, our Annie.'
'Where did she go running?'
'Everywhere. In all kinds of weather. Along the highway, in the woods.'
'And to Serpent Tarn?'
'Yes.'
'Was she restless?'
'She was quiet and calm,' the mother said softly.
Sejer went back over to the window and caught sight of a woman hurrying across the street, a toddler with a dummy clutched in the crook of her arm. 'Any other interests? Aside from running?'
'Film and music and books and things like that. And little children,' the father said. 'Especially when she was younger.'
Sejer asked them to make a list of everyone who knew Annie. Friends, neighbours, teachers, family members. Boyfriends, if there were others. When they were done, the list had 42 names with addresses that were at least partially complete.
'Are you going to talk to everyone on the list?' the mother asked.
'Yes, we are. And this is just the beginning. We'll keep you informed of our progress,' he said.
'We have to see Thorbjorn Haugen. He was searching for Ragnhild yesterday. He can give us a time frame.'
The car moved past the garages. Skarre was reading through his notes.
'I asked the father about the handball business,' he said. 'While the two of you were in the girl's room.'
'And?'
'He said that Annie was very promising. The team had a terrific season, they were in Finland and made it to the finals. He couldn't understand why she gave it up. It made him wonder if something had happened.'
'We should find the coach, whoever he or she is. Maybe that would give us a lead.'
'It's a man,' Skarre said. 'He'd been calling for weeks, trying to persuade her to come back. The team had big problems after she left. No one could replace Annie.'
'We'll call from Headquarters and get his name.'
'His name is Knut Jensvoll, and he lives at 8 Gneisveien, down the hill from here.'
'Thanks,' Sejer said, raising an eyebrow. 'I'm sitting here thinking about something,' he continued. 'The fact that Annie might have been killed at exactly the time when we were on Granittveien, a few minutes away, worrying about Ragnhild. Call Pilestredet, and ask for Snorrason. See if he can hurry things along. We need the forensic report as soon as possible.'
Skarre reached for his mobile phone, dialled the number, asked for Snorrason, waited again, then started mumbling.
'What did he say?'
'That the morgue cold storage is full. That every death is tragic, regardless of the cause, and that a whole list of people are waiting to bury their loved ones, but he understands the urgency, and you can come over in three days to get a preliminary verbal report if you like. You'll have to wait longer for the written one.'
'Oh well,' Sejer said. 'That's not bad for Snorrason.'
CHAPTER 3
Raymond spread butter on a piece of thin flatbread. He was concentrating hard so that it wouldn't break, with his big tongue sticking out of his mouth. He had four pieces of flatbread stacked on top of each other with butter and sugar in between; his record was six.
The kitchen was small and cosy, but now it was messy after his efforts with the food. He had a slice of bread prepared for his father too, white bread with the crust cut off, spread with bacon fat from the frying pan. After they had eaten he would wash the dishes, and then sweep the kitchen floor. He had already emptied his father's urine bottle and filled his water mug. Today there was no sun to be seen; it was overcast grey, and the landscape outside was dreary and flat. The coffee had boiled three times, the way it was supposed to. He placed a fifth piece of flatbread on top and felt quite pleased with himself. He was about to pour coffee into his father's mug when he heard a car pull up by the front door. To his terror he saw it was a police car. He stiffened, backed away from the window, and ran into a corner of the living room. Maybe they were coming to put him in prison. Then who would take care of Papa?
Car doors slammed in the courtyard, and he heard voices, mumbling. He wasn't sure whether he had done something wrong. It wasn't always that easy to know. For safety's sake he didn't budge when they knocked on the door, but it was clear that they weren't intending to give up; they knocked and knocked and called his name. Maybe his father would hear them. He started coughing loudly to drown out the sound. After a while it grew quiet. He was still in the corner of the living room, beside the fireplace, when he caught sight of a face at the window. A tall, grey-haired man was waving at him. It was probably just to lure him out, Raymond thought, and shook his head vigorously. He held on to the fireguard and nestled further into the corner. The man outside looked friendly enough, but that was no guarantee of his being nice. Raymond had found out these things long ago, and he wasn't stupid either. After a while he couldn't bear standing there any longer, so he ran to the kitchen instead, but there was a face there too. Fair, curly hair and a dark uniform. Raymond felt like a kitten in a sack, with cold water pouring over him. He hadn't been out with the van today; it still wouldn't start, so it couldn't have anything to do with that. It must be about the matter up by the tarn, he thought desperately. He stood there, rocking a little. After a while he went out to the hall and looked anxiously at the key in the lock.
'Raymond!' one of them called. 'We just want to talk. We won't hurt you.'
'I wasn't mean to Ragnhild!' he shouted.
'We know that. That's not why we're here. We just need a little help from you.'
Still he hesitated, before finally opening the door.
'May we come in?' the taller one said. 'We have to ask you a few questions.'
'All right. I wasn't sure what you wanted. I can't open the door to just anyone.'
'No, you certainly can't,' Sejer said, looking around him. 'But it's good if you open the door when it's the police.'
'We'll sit in the living room then.'
