Don't Look Back

the result.

'It's 30 degrees Celsius. Together with the blood spots under the skin and only a slight rigor mortis in the neck, I would estimate the time of death as being within the past ten to twelve hours.'

'No,' Sejer said. 'Not if this isn't where she died.'

'Are you doing my job for me?'

He shook his head. 'There was a search made here this morning. A group of boys with dogs searched along this tarn for a little girl who was reported missing. They must have been here sometime between midday and 2 p.m. The body wasn't here then – they would have seen it. The little girl turned up by the way, in good shape,' he said.

He looked about him, staring down at the mud with his eyes narrowed. Something tiny and pale-coloured caught his attention. He picked it up carefully between two fingers. 'What's this?'

Snorrason peered into his hand. 'A pill, or a tablet of some kind.'

'Do you think you might find more in her stomach?'

'Quite possibly. But I don't see a pill bottle here.'

'She could have carried them loose in her pocket.'

'In that case we'll find powder in her dungarees. Bag it up.'

'Do you recognise it?'

'It could be almost anything. But the smallest tablets are often the strongest. The lab will figure it out.'

Sejer nodded to the men with the stretcher and stood watching them with his arms crossed. For the first time in a long while he raised his eyes and looked up. The sky was pale, and the pointed firs stood around the tarn like raised spears. Of course they would figure it out. He made himself a promise. They'd figure everything out.

Jacob Skarre, born and raised in Sogne in the mild Southland, had just turned 25. He had seen naked women plenty of times, but never as naked as the one by the tarn. It struck him just now, as he sat with Sejer in the car, that this one had made more of an impression than all the other corpses he had seen before. Maybe it was because she lay as if trying to conceal her nakedness, with her back to the path, head tucked down and knees drawn up. But they had found her anyway, and they had seen her nakedness. Turned her and rolled her over, pulled back her lips to look at her teeth, raised her eyelids. Took her temperature, as she lay on her stomach with her legs spread. As if she were a mare at auction.

'She was quite pretty, wasn't she?' he said, shaken.

Sejer didn't answer. But he was glad of the comment. He had found other young women, had heard other comments. They drove for a while in silence, staring at the road in front of them, but further in the distance they kept on seeing her naked body – the ripple of her backbone, the soles of her feet with a slightly redder skin, the calves with blonde hair on them – hovering above the asphalt like a mirage. Sejer had an odd feeling. This resembled nothing he had ever seen.

'You're on the night shift?'

Skarre cleared his throat. 'Just till midnight. I'm doing a few hours for Ringstad. By the way, I heard you were thinking of taking a week's holiday – is that off now?'

'Looks that way.'

He had forgotten all about it.

The missing persons list lay before him on the table.

Four names, two men, and two women, both born before 1960 and therefore not the woman they had found by Serpent Tarn. One was missing from the Central Hospital psychiatric ward, the other from a retirement home in the next town. 'Height 155 centimetres, weight 45 kilos. Snow-white hair.'

It was 6 p.m., and it might be hours before some anxious soul reported her missing. They would have to wait for the photos and the autopsy report, so there wasn't much that could be done until they had the woman's identity. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair and took the lift down to the first floor. Bowed gallantly to Mrs Brenningen at the front desk, recalling at the same moment that she was a widow and perhaps lived much the same life as he did. She was pretty too, blonde like his wife Elise, but plumper.

He headed for his own car in the car park, an elderly ice-blue Peugeot 604. In his mind he could see the face of the corpse, healthy and round, without make-up. Her clothes were neat and sensible. The straight, blonde hair was well cut, the trainers expensive. On her wrist she wore an expensive Seiko sports watch. This was a woman with a decent background, from a home with order and structure. He had found other women for whom a quite different lifestyle spoke its unequivocal language. Still, he had been surprised before. They didn't know yet whether she was drunk or drugged or full of some other misery. Anything was possible, and things were not always what they seemed.

He drove slowly through the town, past the market square and the fire station. Skarre had promised to call as soon as the woman was reported missing. On the medallion were the letters H.M. Helene, he thought, or maybe Hilde. He didn't think it would be long before someone contacted them. This was an orderly girl who kept appointments.

As he fumbled with the key in the lock he heard the thump as the dog jumped down from the forbidden spot on the armchair. Sejer lived in a block of flats, the only one in town that was 13 storeys high, so it looked out of place in the landscape. Like an outsized Viking monument it loomed in the sky above the surrounding buildings. When he'd moved in 20 years ago with Elise, it was because the flat had an excellent floor plan and a spectacular view. He could see the entire town, and compared with it the other possible flats seemed too closed in. Inside, it was easy to forget what sort of building it was; inside, the flat was cosy and warm with wood-panelling. The furniture, old and of solid sand-blasted oak, had belonged to his parents. For the most part, the walls were covered with books, and in the little remaining space he had hung a few favourite pictures. One of Elise, several of his grandson and Ingrid. A charcoal drawing by Kathe Kollwitz, Death with Girl on His Lap, taken from a catalogue and framed in black lacquer. A photograph of himself in freefall above the airport. His parents, solemnly posing in their Sunday best. Each time he looked at the picture of his father, his own old age seemed to advance uncomfortably upon him. He could see how his cheeks would sink in, while his ears and eyebrows would continue to grow, giving him the same bushy appearance.

The rules in this apartment society, in which the families were stacked on top of one another as in Vigeland's monolith, were extremely strict. It was forbidden to shake rugs from the balcony, so they sent them out to be cleaned every spring. It was nearly time to do that again. The dog, Kollberg, shed hair like crazy. This had been discussed at the building's board meeting but had somehow slipped through, probably because he was a detective inspector and his neighbours felt secure having him there. He didn't feel trapped, because he lived on the top floor. The apartment was clean and tidy and reflected what was inside him: order and simplicity. The dog had a corner in the kitchen where dried food was always scattered about with spilt water; this corner indicated Sejer's one weak point: his attachment to his dog was an emotional one. The bathroom was the only room that displeased him, but he would get around to that eventually. Right now he had this woman to deal with, and possibly a dangerous man on the loose. He didn't like it. It was like standing at a bend in the road and not being able to see beyond it.

He braced his legs to receive the dog's welcome, which was overwhelming. He took him out for a quick walk behind the building, gave him fresh water, and was halfway through the newspaper when the phone rang. He turned down the stereo and felt a slight tension as he picked up the receiver. Someone might have called in already; maybe they had a name to give him.

'Hi, Grandpa!' said a voice.

'Matteus?'

'I have to go to bed now. It's nighttime.'

'Did you brush your teeth?' he asked, sitting down on the telephone bench.

He could see before him the little mocha-coloured face and pearl-white teeth.

'Mama did it for me.'

'And you took your fluoride pill?'

'Uh-huh.'

'And said your prayers?'

'Mama says I don't have to.'

He chatted to his grandson for a long time, with the receiver pressed to his ear so he could hear all the little sighs and lilts in the lively voice. It was as pliant and soft as a willow flute in the spring. Finally he exchanged a few words with his daughter. He heard her resigned sigh when he told her about the body they had found, as if she