He Who Fears The Wolf

'Not at all. His strength lies elsewhere.' Gurvin tapped his finger against his forehead.

Skarre stared at the screen. He tried to make out the eyes below the black hair, but couldn't.

'In a way I can better understand him, now that I look at the tape,' he said. 'He doesn't behave the way you'd expect someone to in that situation. He doesn't resist. Or even say a word. What do you think was going on in his mind?' Skarre looked over at Gurvin and pointed at the screen.

'He's listening to something.'

'Inner voices?'

'It looks like it. I've often noticed the way he walks along, shaking his head, as if he were listening attentively to some sort of internal dialogue.'

'Does he ever speak?'

'Once in a while. He has an oddly formal way of talking. Often you can't understand what he's saying. And that desperado with the mask probably hasn't understood much either, if they've even exchanged a single word.'

'Is Errki well known in the area?'

'Very well known. He's always wandering along the roads. Once in a while he hitch-hikes, but not many people dare stop for him. He likes to take the bus or the train, going here and there. Prefers to be on the move. Sleeps wherever he feels like it – on a bench in the park, in the woods, at a bus stop.'

'No friends at all?'

'He doesn't want any.'

'Have you ever asked him?' Sejer said curtly.

'You don't ask Errki about anything. You keep your distance,' Gurvin said.

Sejer sat lost in thought. The sun shimmered on his close-cropped grey hair. He reminded Gurvin of a Greek ascetic; the only thing missing was the laurel wreath around his head. The chief inspector thought for a long time, absentmindedly scratching one elbow.

'I thought there were only old people in the Beacon,' he said at last.

'In the past,' said Gurvin. 'Now it's a psychiatric unit for young people, with 40 patients divided up into four sections, one of them restricted. Or locked, as we say. It's known as the Lock-up by those who live there. I've been there once with a boy from Guttebakken.'

'I have to find out who Errki's doctor is and have a talk with him. Why is it so hard to say whether or not he's dangerous?'

'There are so many rumours.' Gurvin looked at him. 'He's the kind that gets blamed for everything. I for one don't know of a single situation he was mixed up in that could be called criminal, except for sneaking onto a train or shoplifting. But now I'm not so sure.'

'What does he shoplift?'

'Chocolate.'

'And he doesn't have any contact with his family?'

'Errki refuses to see them, and they can't help him anyway. The father has given up on his son. But you shouldn't blame him. Simply put, there is no hope for Errki.'

'Maybe it's a good thing that his doctor can't hear you,' said Sejer quietly.

'Perhaps. But he's been sick almost all his life, or at least ever since his mother died 16 years ago. That says a lot.'

Sejer stood up and pushed his chair under the desk. 'Let's have a cup of coffee. I want you to tell me everything you know.'

*

Kannick was enthroned on his bed like a Buddha. It surprised his listeners, who were sitting in a semicircle on the floor, that he could sit cross-legged in spite of his bulk. At first nobody believed him. How could it be possible that Kannick had found a body up in the woods? And one that had been chopped up, at that. At least that's what he told them. Chopped up. It was especially difficult for the oldest boy, Karsten, who generally had a monopoly of the truth. His expression, when Margunn confirmed the story, was still fresh in Kannick's memory. It was one of his greatest victories. Now they all wanted to hear about it from Kannick's own mouth, every little detail. But they had been at Guttebakken long enough to know that nothing was free in the world, and the presents lay in front of Kannick on the bedspread. A Firklover chocolate bar, a pink packet of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, a bag of crisps, and a box of Mocca beans. And still to come: ten cigarettes and a disposable lighter. Everyone was waiting, eyes shining, and it was clear to Kannick that they weren't going to be satisfied with a dry, factual account. They were out for blood, and nothing less would do. Besides, they knew Halldis. It wasn't just a matter of an obituary notice in the paper – this was a live human being. Or at least she used to be.

Kannick had been forbidden to say too much about the murder. Margunn didn't want to get the other boys excited. They were unruly enough as it was. The staff had meagre resources, and only just managed to keep control of the motley group.

Kannick squinted his blue eyes. He decided to start with Simon and finish with Karsten. Simon was only eight and reminded him of a melting chocolate mouse. Sweet and dark and soft.

'I went out with my bow and arrows,' Kannick began, fixing his gaze on Simon's brown eyes. 'Had just shot a fat crow with my second arrow. I have two arrow points that I ordered from Denmark hidden in a secret compartment of my suitcase. Don't tell anyone. It's illegal here in Norway,' he added importantly.

Karsten's face wore a long-suffering expression.

'The bird dropped like a bag of sugar and landed at my feet. There was nobody to be seen in the woods, but I had a bad feeling that somebody was nearby. You know me, always going off to the woods. I sense when something's about to happen. Maybe it's because I spend so much time in the animal world.'

He took a breath, pleased with his dramatic opening. Simon was hanging on his every word. No-one dared so much as to sigh, for fear of interrupting his account.

'I left the crow on the ground and headed for Halldis's farm.'

He turned to look at Sivert now, a freckled eleven-year-old with a braid down his back.

'It was strangely quiet down there. Halldis always gets up early, so I went looking for her. Thought I could bum a glass of juice or something like that. Not a soul in sight. But her curtains were open, so I thought she might be having coffee and reading a magazine, the way she usually does.'

Jan Farstad, known as Jaffa, looked into Kannick's eyes and waited tensely. 'If so,' Kannick went on, 'I thought I could get a slice of home-made bread with goat cheese. Once Halldis let me have eight pieces of bread, but that was the last I ever got.'

He blinked at the memory.

'Get to the point!' Karsten shouted, casting a glance at the Mocca beans on the bedspread, his payment for the story.

'I caught sight of her as soon as I came around the well. And let me tell you,' he swallowed hard, 'the sight is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.'

'Yes, but what did you see?'

Karsten's voice rose to a falsetto. He was the only one of the boys to have a hint of a moustache and the first trace of acne at the corners of his nose.

'I saw the body of Halldis Horn!' Kannick said, exhaling loudly because he had forgotten to breathe. 'Lying on her back on the front steps. With a hoe in one eye. And grey matter pouring out of the socket. It looked like oatmeal.' His gaze grew steadily more remote.

'What's grey matter?' Simon asked in a low voice.

'Her brains,' said Karsten, sounding bored.

'Brains can't pour out, can they?'

'Jesus, yes. They pour out like crazy. I suppose you didn't know that the stuff between your ears is as thin as soup.'

Simon picked at a thread in his shirt and didn't stop until he had pulled it out. 'I once saw a brain in a jar. It wasn't runny at all.' His voice had a sullen tone, but was also rather anxious because he was daring to disagree with this experienced group. There was no getting around the fact that he was the youngest.

'What an amateur! It wasn't runny because it was preserved. And then it has the consistency of a mushroom