'Not a bad idea,' Holland said, clearing his throat. 'But it's so strange with all the images that go through your mind. When you try to imagine what it's like. If you're buried in the ground, your body decays. And that doesn't sound very nice. But then there's the idea of burning.'
He paused for a moment, feeling as though his knees were about to buckle, but then he was able to continue, encouraged by the patience of the other man.
'There's something about burning that makes me think of- well, you know – of Hell. And when I picture my girl…'
He stopped abruptly, slowly turning red. The other man stood motionless for a long time, and then finally gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, 'You have to make a decision for… your daughter? Is that right?'
Holland bowed his head.
'I think you should take this very seriously. It's like having a double responsibility. It's not easy, no, it's not.' He shook his lean face from side to side. 'And you should take your time. But if you decide on cremation, you'll have to sign a statement that she never uttered a word of objection. Unless she's under 18, that is, then you can make the decision for her.'
'She's 15,' he said.
The superintendent closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then he started walking again. 'Come with me to the chapel,' he said. 'I'll show you an urn.'
He led Holland down some stairs. An invisible hand had been placed over them, shutting out the rest of the world. They leaned towards each other, the superintendent to lend support, Holland to receive warmth. Downstairs the walls were rough and whitewashed. At the bottom stood a red-and-white floral arrangement, and a suffering Christ stared down at them from the cross on the wall. Eddie pulled himself together. He sensed that his cheeks had regained their colour, and he felt more at ease.
The urns stood on shelves along the walls. The superintendent lifted one down and handed it to Holland. 'Go ahead and hold it. Nice, isn't it?'
He touched the urn and tried to envision what had been his daughter, that he was holding her in his arms. The urn looked like metal, but he knew that it was a biodegradable material, and it felt warm in his hands.
'So now I've told you what happens. That's all there is to it, I haven't left anything out.'
Eddie Holland ran his fingers over the gold-coloured urn. It did feel good in his hand, with a solid weight to it.
'The urn is porous so that air from the earth can get in and speed up the process. The urn will disappear too. There's something mysterious and grand about the fact that everything disappears, don't you think?'
He smiled with reverence. 'And we will too. Even this building, and the paved road outside. But all the same,' he said, taking a firm grip on Eddie's arm, 'I still like to believe that there's something greater in store for us. Something different and exciting. Why shouldn't there be?'
Holland looked at him, almost in surprise.
'On the outside we put a label with her name on it,' he said in conclusion.
Holland nodded. Realised that he was still on his feet. Time would go on passing, minute after minute. Now he had felt a small part of the pain, moved a little bit down the path, with Annie. Imagined the flames, and the roar of the oven.
'It should say Annie,' he said. 'Annie Sofie Holland.'
When he came home, Ada was bending over the sink, listlessly washing some muddy red potatoes. Six potatoes. Two each. Not eight, like she was used to. It looked so paltry. Her face was still set in pain, it had set rigid the second she bent over the gurney at the hospital and the doctor drew back the sheet. Afterwards the expression remained like a mask that she couldn't move.
'Where have you been?' she asked tonelessly.
'I've been thinking about it,' Holland said. 'And I think we should have Annie cremated.'
She dropped the potato and stared at him. 'Cremated?'
'I've been thinking about it,' he said. 'The fact that someone… assaulted her. And left a mark on her. I want it gone!'
He leaned heavily against the counter and gave her an imploring look. It was rare for him to ask for anything.
'What kind of mark?' she asked as if she hardly cared, picking up the potato again. 'We can't have Annie cremated.'
'You just need time to get used to the idea,' he said, a little louder than before. 'It's a beautiful custom.'
'We can't have Annie cremated,' she repeated, as she continued to scrub. 'They called from the prosecutor's office. They said we couldn't have her cremated.'
'But why not?' he cried, wringing his hands.
'In case they need to bring her up again. When they find the man who did it.'
CHAPTER 7
Bardy Snorrason stuck a hand under the steel handle and pulled Annie out of the wall. The drawer slid almost soundlessly on well-oiled runners. He didn't associate the body of the young girl with his own life or mortality, or the mortality of his daughters. He didn't do that any more. He had a good appetite and he slept well at night. And because he handled the misfortune and deaths of others with the utmost respect, he figured that those who came after him would do the same with his own body when that day arrived. Nothing in his 30 years as a medical examiner had given him cause to think otherwise.
It took him two hours to go through all the points. The picture gradually took on familiar signs as he worked. The lungs were speckled like a bird's egg, and reddish-yellow foam could be pressed out of the incisions. There was plenty of blood in the brain and stripe-shaped haemorrhages in the throat and breast muscles, which indicated that she had gasped violently for air. He read his notes into a Dictaphone: brief, terse, barely comprehensible observations that could be interpreted only by the initiated, and sometimes not at all. Later his assistant would translate them into precise terminology for the written report.
After he'd been through everything he put the top of the skull back in place, pulled the skin over it, rinsed the body thoroughly, and filled the empty chest cavity with crumpled newspaper. Then he sewed the body back up. He was very hungry. He needed to have some food before he could start on the next one, and he had four open sandwiches with Jubel salami and a thermos of coffee waiting for him in the canteen.
He caught sight of someone through the translucent glass in the door. The person stopped and stood motionless for a moment, as if wanting to turn around. Snorrason pulled off his gloves and smiled. There weren't many people of such a towering height.
Sejer had to duck a little as he came in. He cast an indifferent glance at the trolley, where Annie was now wrapped in a sheet. He had pulled on the mandatory plastic coverings over his shoes, which were baggy and pastel-coloured and looked quite comical.
'I've just finished,' Snorrason said. 'She's over there.'
Now Sejer gave the body on the trolley a look of greater interest.
'So I'm in luck.'
'That's questionable.'
The doctor began washing his hands and arms from the elbow down, scrubbing his skin and fingernails with a stiff brush for several minutes and finishing by rinsing them for an equal amount of time. Then he dried off, using paper towels from a holder on the wall, pulled out a chair and slid it towards the chief inspector.
'There wasn't much to discover here.'
'Don't destroy all my hopes straight away. Surely there must be something?'
Snorrason pushed aside his hunger pangs and sat down.
'It's not my job to determine the value of what we find. But usually we do find something. She seems so untouched.'
'Presumably he was a strong, healthy individual. He had the benefit of complete surprise. And he removed her
