disapproved of the way he had chosen to spend his life. She sighed in exactly the same way as Elise had done. He didn't mention her involvement in Somalia, wracked by civil war. He looked at the clock instead and thought that somewhere someone was sitting and doing exactly the same thing. Somewhere else someone was waiting, staring at the window and the telephone, someone who would wait in vain.
Headquarters was a 24-hour institution that served a district of five communities, inhabited by 115,000 citizens, some good, some bad. More than 200 people were employed in the entire courthouse and prison offices, and 150 of them worked at Police Headquarters. Of these, 30 were investigators, but since some staff members were always on leave or attending courses and seminars by order of the Minister of Justice, in practice there were never more than 20 people at work each day. That was too few. According to Holthemann the public was no longer in focus – they were more or less outside the field of vision.
Minor cases were solved by single investigators, while more difficult cases were assigned to larger teams. Between 14,000 and 15,000 cases poured in annually. In the daytime the work might consist of dealing with applications from people who wanted to set up stands to sell things like silk flowers or figures made out of dough at the market, or who wanted to demonstrate against something, such as the new tunnel. The automated traffic cameras had to be reviewed. People would come in, simmering with indignation, to be confronted by undeniable images of themselves in the act of crossing double lines or running red lights. They would sit snorting in the waiting room, 30 or 40 per day, with their wallets quaking in their jackets. Pelle Police Car, the community public relations vehicle, had to be manned, and it had to be admitted that the officers weren't exactly fighting over this important duty. Detainees had to be taken to hearings. The Headquarters staff came in with applications of their own, requests for leave that had to be dealt with, and the days were packed with meetings. On the fourth floor was the Legal and Prosecution Section, where five lawyers worked in close co-operation with the police. On the fifth and sixth floors was the county jail. On the roof was a yard where the prisoners could get a glimpse of the sky.
The duty officer was the Headquarters representative to the outside world, and the job placed great demands on the flexibility and patience of that officer. Citizens were on the phone 24 hours a day, an almost endless barrage of complaints: bicycles stolen, dogs lost, break-ins, claims of harassment. Excitable parents from the better residential areas would ring to complain about joy-riding in the neighbourhood. Occasionally only a gasping voice was heard, a pitiful attempt to report abuse or rape that expired in despair, leaving nothing but a dead dial tone on the line. Less frequent were calls reporting murder or missing persons. In the midst of this barrage Skarre sat, waiting. He knew that it would come, he could feel the tension mounting as the clock ticked and the hours rolled into evening and then night.
It was almost midnight when Sejer's phone rang for the second time. He was dozing in his armchair with the newspaper on his lap. His blood was flowing gently in his veins, thinned by a shot of whisky. He rang for a cab, and 20 minutes later he was in his office.
'They arrived in an old Toyota,' Skarre said. 'I was waiting for them outside. Her parents.'
'What did you say to them?'
'Probably not the right things. I was a little stressed. They called first, and half an hour later they drove up. They've already gone.'
'To the morgue?'
'Yes.'
'They were quite certain?'
'They brought along a photo. The mother knew exactly what she was wearing. Everything matched up, from the belt buckle to the underwear. She was wearing a special kind of bra, a sports bra. She exercised a lot. But the anorak wasn't hers.'
'Are you kidding?'
'Incredible, isn't it?'
Skarre couldn't help himself – he could feel his eyes light up.
'He left us a clue, free of charge. In the pockets there was a packet of sugar and a reflector shaped like an owl. Nothing else.'
'To leave his jacket behind, I can't believe it. Who is she, by the way?'
He looked at his notes. 'Annie Sofie Holland.'
'Annie Holland? What about the medallion?'
'Belonged to her boyfriend. His name is Halvor.'
'Where is she from?'
'Lundeby. They live at 20 Krystallen. It's actually the same street where Ragnhild Album stayed overnight, just a little further up the block. An odd coincidence.'
'And her parents? What were they like?'
'Scared to death,' he said in a low voice. 'Nice, decent people. She talked non-stop, he was practically mute. They left with Siven. As you can probably imagine,' he added, 'I'm a little shaken.'
Sejer put a Fisherman's Friend lozenge in his mouth.
'She was only 15,' Skarre continued. 'A high-school student.'
'That can't be right!' He shook his head. 'I thought she was older. Are the pictures ready?' He ran his hand through his hair and sat down.
Skarre handed him a folder from the file. The pictures had been blown up to 20 x 25 cm, except for two that were even larger.
'Have you ever dealt with a sex murder?' Sejer asked.
Skarre shook his head.
'This doesn't look like a sex crime. This is different.'
He leafed through the stack. 'She's laid out too nicely, looks too good. As if she'd been put to bed with the covers pulled up. No bruises or scratches, no sign of resistance. Even her hair looks as if it's been arranged. Sex offenders don't do things like that, they show off their power. They cast their victims aside.'
'But she's naked.'
'Yes, I know.'
'So what do you think the pictures are telling us? At first glance.'
'I'm not really sure. That jacket is arranged so protectively over her shoulders.'
'Almost tenderly?'
'Well, look at the pictures. Don't you think so?'
'Yes, I agree. But what are we saying then? Some kind of mercy killing?'
'Well, at least that there were emotions at play. I mean, in between all the rest, he had feelings for her. Positive feelings. In which case he may have known her. As a rule, they do.'
'How long do you think we have to wait for the report?'
'I'll breathe down Snorrason's neck as effectively as I can. Too bad it was so damn free of rubbish up there. A few unusable footprints and one pill. But otherwise not even a cigarette butt, not so much as an ice-cream stick.'
He crunched the lozenge with his teeth, went over to the sink and filled a paper cup with water.
'Tomorrow we'll go back to Granittveien. We have to talk to the boys who were looking for Ragnhild. Thorbjorn, for one. We have to know exactly when they were at Serpent Tarn.'
'What about Raymond Lake?'
'Him too. And Ragnhild. Kids pick up on a lot of strange things, believe me. I speak from experience,' he added. 'What about the Hollands? Do they have any other children?'
'Another daughter. Older.'
'Thank God for that.'
'Is that supposed to be some kind of consolation?' Skarre said.
'For us it is,' Seyer said gloomily.
The younger man patted his pocket. 'Is it all right if I smoke?'
'Go ahead.'
'There are two ways to reach Serpent Tarn,' he said, exhaling. 'By the marked path that we took, or the road on the far side, which was the way that Ragnhild and Raymond went. If anyone lives along that road, don't you think we should pay them a visit tomorrow?'
'It's called Kolleveien. I don't think there are many houses, I checked on the map at home. Just a few farms.
