'Do you remember Helen Nilsson?' Sejer said. 'She, too, was ten years old. Helen Nilsson from Horby in Sweden. She was found on a woodland road wrapped in a bin liner. It took police fifteen years to find her killer. Fifteen years and ten thousand interviews. We just have to keep going.'
CHAPTER 32
Reinhardt had fantasised about it countless times, the moment he would finally come face to face with the man from Linde Forest. And how that moment would be filled with surprise and triumph. But he had never imagined that his heart would pound like this or that his cheeks would start to burn. It was the middle of December and they had gone to the ICA superstore to do their shopping. Reinhardt pushed the trolley and Kristine selected the groceries. She jumped when Reinhardt grabbed her arm.
'Kristine,' he whispered. 'Look!'
She tried to free herself. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she looked in the direction he was pointing and noticed a middle-aged man in a worn leather jacket. He was standing in the fruit section choosing some apples.
'Hans Christian Andersen,' Reinhardt whispered.
Kristine's eyes widened.
'It's the man from Linde Forest,' he said.
'Him?' Kristine asked. 'With the apples? No.'
'Yes,' Reinhardt insisted. 'You can see that it's the same man. Don't you dare tell me I'm wrong. Remember we saw him clearly, just a few metres away and in broad daylight.' He shook his head in disbelief. 'Bloody hell. And here he is now, doing his shopping, pretending nothing has happened.'
The man had his back to them, but then he turned and they could see his profile. Kristine could not believe that it was him; this man looked utterly pathetic and selecting a few apples seemed an insurmountable task for him. He would pick one up, turn it this way and that, put it back down, take another, his whole being seemed weary and wretched. She just could not imagine him being responsible for the murder of two children. She had expected someone evil because her mind had embroidered on her actual experience and moulded him in the light of his crime. His eyes were blacker and his cheeks more hollow, that was how she remembered him.
'Just look at his profile,' Reinhardt said.
'He resembles him, that's all,' she declared, wanting to finish their shopping. She felt confused, she clung to the trolley. The man had turned away and all they could see was his back.
'It is him,' Reinhardt stated. 'We need to call the police.'
Kristine went over to the fruit section where she got some clementines. She glanced briefly at the man in the leather jacket and the memories came flooding back. She had to agree that he resembled him, but she still had doubts.
'I don't understand how you can be so sure,' she said. 'We only saw him for a few seconds and it was more than three months ago.'
'I'm certain,' he stated firmly. 'I'll never forget that face. Don't be silly now. This is what the police have been waiting for all this time.'
The man headed for the checkout.
'He's limping,' Kristine said.
'Exactly,' Reinhardt said. 'He's dragging one leg. Now do you believe me?'
Kristine was overcome by a sudden, inexplicable fear. She did not like being near him. She hated that he walked around all ordinary looking, buying apples like normal people.
'We've got to find out if he drives a Granada,' Reinhardt said. 'I bet you he does. Hurry up, we can't lose him!'
'I haven't finished my shopping,' Kristine objected.
'That's not important right now,' Reinhardt snapped.
They followed him at a suitable distance. He went to the checkout and placed his shopping on the belt.
'We'll take the checkout next to him,' Reinhardt said, 'otherwise he'll finish before we do. You pay and I'll pack!'
He slipped past her and waited while the cashier scanned their groceries. Kristine paid and they left. They quickly loaded their shopping and got into their car, where they waited for him. Shortly afterwards he appeared with a carrier bag in each hand.
'Do you see a Granada anywhere?' Kristine asked.
No, Reinhardt thought, no Granada, but he could have been wrong about the car. He did not say so out loud because he hated being wrong. The man was now heading towards a white car.
'A Carina,' he exclaimed. 'An old Toyota Carina. It looks like a Granada from the back, I should have known it was a Carina! We must get a look at the number plate. Do you have something to write with, Kristine? We'll get his registration number and give it to the police. Hurry up. For God's sake what are you waiting for?'
She fumbled around in her handbag for a pen and some paper while the man put his shopping in the boot of his car. There was something slow and hesitant about him, as if everything was an uphill struggle. Kristine scribbled down the registration number on a scrap of paper.
'We'll follow him,' Reinhardt said.
Kristine gave him a dubious look. 'Surely we don't need to follow him,' she said, 'we've got his registration number. All we have to do is call the police.'
But Reinhardt was unstoppable. 'I want to know where he lives,' he said. 'I have to know. Look, he's turning right, I bet he's from Huseby. He's speeding. And he's not indicating either. What a crap driver.'
Kristine groaned in despair.
'If he turns off, we have to let him go,' she said. 'It's not our business to follow complete strangers to find out where they live.'
'I don't have a problem with following him,' Reinhardt said. 'Later we'll call the police and give them his registration number, his address and everything. Jesus Christ,' he exclaimed, punching the steering wheel. He was so excited his cheeks had gone bright red.
'You could be wrong,' Kristine said.
'Not this time. Admit it, he looks like him, he's the spitting image.'
'He does look like him,' she conceded. 'But people resemble each other.'
'He's limping,' Reinhardt continued.
'So does my uncle,' Kristine said, 'because he's got a tumour in his knee.'
'Now stop being so stupid,' he raged. 'You agreed with me, don't you dare back down now!'
They followed him for eleven kilometres. He took the exit for Huseby precisely as Reinhardt had predicted. The car went through the town and turned left at the top of a steep hill.
'Granasveien,' Reinhardt said. 'I bet he lives at Granas Farm. Perhaps he rents a cottage there.'
'We can't follow him all the way to his house,' Kristine protested. 'It might ruin everything if he sees us in his mirror. I don't think the police would be best pleased to know that we're playing detectives.'
'I'm bloody well not going to turn around now,' snarled Reinhardt. 'I want to know where he lives.'
The car stopped by a row of letter boxes and the man got out.
'He's opening the middle box,' Reinhardt said.
The man got back in his car and drove down to the right, where he stopped outside an old cottage.
Reinhardt drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
'He's noticed us,' Kristine said. 'He's realised that we've been following him.'
'He's gone inside now,' Reinhardt said. 'Now get out and find out what the name on the letter box is.'
She got out of the car and ran over to the letter boxes. She stood there for a few seconds before running back and getting into the car.
'His name's Brein,' she said. 'Wilfred A. Brein. Can we go now, please?'
