'And we're a part of it,' he said.
'We're not.'
'You don't want to be,' he corrected her. 'That's a different matter. You just want to move on, you want to forget about it. You're a true woman, you shy away from confrontation.'
'Yes,' she said. 'I want to move on. You're utterly wrong. There is nothing we can do, Reinhardt, let the police deal with it, please!'
'Like I thought,' he said. 'You don't appreciate how serious this is. But you and I can identify him, we can place him at the crime scene, or a few metres away from it at any rate. Don't you understand how important we are? The police need us. Think about it: we can put him away for twenty-one years!'
He was becoming melodramatic, the pitch of his voice was rising. She turned on the cooker and put butter in the frying pan.
'I can barely recall what he looked like,' she said.
Reinhardt's jaw dropped. 'How can you say that? You were so sure back then. About his clothes and everything? Hans Christian Andersen, that's what you said, wasn't it? Hans Christian Andersen, of all things.'
'Yes,' she said reluctantly, 'but I'm not so sure any more, about any of it.'
Reinhardt folded his arms across his chest. 'But I am. I'm sure. And there's nothing wrong with my eyesight.'
The butter was browning, she added the liver; the smell spread through the kitchen.
'There must have been something wrong with his parents,' Reinhardt said distantly.
She glanced at him across her shoulder.
'Why?'
'Since he turned into a pervert.'
'We can't be sure of that, can we?' she said. 'We don't know if it had anything to do with his parents.'
'People don't get damaged for no reason,' he said.
She added seasoning, inhaled the good smell.
'It's a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,' Reinhardt went on. He was leaning against the worktop and he shook his head sadly. 'I mean, poor little Jonas August, who came walking along the road on the very day, the very moment the killer drove past. What are the chances of that?'
Kristine turned over the liver in the frying pan. The strips were browning nicely.
'I really don't think this was premeditated,' she said. 'Perhaps he hadn't even planned it, perhaps he just passed him in his car and acted on impulse.'
'That's precisely what we're talking about,' Reinhardt said. 'An inability to control impulses.'
'Have you deleted all those pictures?' she asked.
He tossed his head. 'Why do you keep going on about them?'
'Have you shown them to people at work?'
She moved the frying pan away from the heat.
'What if I have? I don't understand why you're getting so worked up about them, people are naturally curious.'
She turned away again before replying. 'They were never meant for public consumption,' she said.
'And who decided that?'
Suddenly she felt exhausted. She leaned against the cooker and felt the heat from the brown butter waft against her face.
'Common decency,' she whispered. 'Have you never heard of that?'
CHAPTER 18
He put on the old leather jacket. It was so worn he felt like a beggar, but he could not worry about that. His hair was unkempt, too, it was a long time since he had last had it cut. His benefits never stretched to haircuts, he always had to economise. He was forced to go out, he had to drive the white car through the streets because there was no food left in the house. He had starved these last few days, he was starting to waste away. The daylight terrified him, but he made himself leave the house. I'm still alive, he thought, I'm still free. At the last minute he fetched an old cap and put it on his head, pulled the brim down and went over to the mirror. He thought it was a good disguise. The car was only a few steps away. At this very moment the farmer's old mother came hobbling across the farmyard, her chin jutting out, her back hunched. She used to run this farm. In her day there had also been a herd of dairy cows here, now only the chickens were left and some black and white rabbits in a hutch behind the barn.
She spotted him and waved, but he swiftly opened the car door and got in. He did not want to talk, not to anyone. But she started shuffling at great speed. Something was clearly going on and his fear of seeming desperate made him wait. She leaned against the car and peered down at him with watery eyes. Reluctantly he rolled down the window.
'You're going into town, aren't you?'
He nodded. When women grow very old they seem to develop a sixth sense, he thought.
'Need to do a bit of shopping,' he said, forcing a weak smile. He had nothing against her, in fact he rather liked the grey, old woman. He could not imagine the farm without her, and he liked it when she pottered around with her hands folded behind her back.
'We all need to eat,' she said.
Her dress was faded and worn; he noticed that a few buttons were missing and he could see an old-fashioned pink slip with a narrow lace trim underneath it. Her hair was dry and white and stuck out from underneath a blue headscarf.
'Have you seen all those cars?' she asked. 'All those photographers and reporters? They've come to ask about the boy. The one they found up in Linde Forest.'
'Yes,' he croaked. 'I've seen them.'
'Poor little lad.'
'Yes,' he said. 'It's awful.'
'Police cars too,' she added, 'all over the place. And it's been fifty years since the last time.'
'The last time since what?' he asked.
'Since anyone committed a murder here in Huseby.'
He gave her a confused look.
'Oh, you didn't know?'
'No,' he replied.
She swaggered a little because she had something to impart.
'The eldest son at Fagre Ost killed his sweetheart. She was only fifteen. Pregnant too, she was, that's how young people are, they sleep together and, of course, it has consequences. He was sent down for a very long time. He moved to the other end of the country when he got out, needless to say. He's on benefits now. I suppose he's sitting somewhere moping about what happened.'
He listened to her stream of words. He wondered if she wanted something from him or whether she was just in search of an audience.
'But to go for small children is absolutely unforgivable, in my opinion.'
She was fiddling with her headscarf with a wrinkled hand. Her nails were long and curved.
'Adults beating each other black and blue, that's one thing. But he was only a little lad.'
He nodded. She was not looking at him now, she was talking into the air while she clawed at the car door as if to stop him from leaving because she had so much to tell him.
'Anyway,' she said, 'there was something I wanted to ask you. It's only a small thing. If it's not too much trouble. I don't want to be a nuisance.' She scrutinised him with her faded blue eyes. 'But if you don't ask, you don't get, so the saying goes.'
He waited patiently. It was a question of giving her time. The very old, he thought, they trap us in their slowness, it's like being caught in a mass of seaweed. He looked into her withered face; her skin hung loose
