for that. After all, you teach girls as well, don't you?'
Alex shrugged and sat down. For a while he scratched the kitchen table with his thumbnail.
'Of course,' he said, 'but I get on better with the boys. Or, I don't know, I've never really thought about it. You're making mountains out of molehills. Haven't you ever heard of chance?'
'Yes and I don't believe in it. If the police come knocking, you're on your own.'
'The police? Oh, please, get some perspective,' Alex said. 'Are you ashamed of me?'
Johannes looked away.
'That's it,' Alex exclaimed. 'You're ashamed of me. You're ashamed that you're gay, you're ashamed about everything. And all the good things in life are passing you by.'
'I'm not ashamed. But there's a child-killer on the loose and people are talking about you.'
Alex got up from the table. He went over to Johannes, leaned against the worktop and sighed. 'It's not like we're ever going to have children of our own,' he said.
'Why would we want to have children?' Johannes said. 'We've already got a house full of them.'
'But I've always wanted a son, that's all.'
Johannes had been dicing vegetables. Now he stopped and slumped a little over the worktop.
'Did you bring in the post?' Alex asked.
Johannes put down the knife.
'Yes,' he said quietly. 'I brought in the post, I always do.'
He picked up the knife again and carried on.
'Where did you put it?'
No reply.
'Johannes,' Alex said. 'Did you put the post on top of the fridge?'
He tried to fathom Johannes's reluctance. On the top of the fridge he found a pile of junk mail, a few letters and a small picture postcard. It depicted a boy and a girl picking flowers on the edge of a cliff and behind them stood an angel with white wings. There was something profoundly touching about the image and for a moment Alex felt as if he was the guardian angel, that he would never let his pupils out of his sight. Perhaps someone else had thought exactly the same and this was their way of showing their appreciation. He turned over the card and read the message. There was a name, an address and a few brief lines.
'Well?' Johannes asked.
Alex turned his back to him and Johannes could see that he was clasping his mouth with his hand.
'It's from the Parents' Association,' he stuttered. 'They've asked for a meeting.'
CHAPTER 37
Granas Farm consisted of a farmhouse, a storehouse, two cottages and a barn and three hundred and fifty acres of farmland. An avenue of tall birches led up to the farm and you could see that the wind from the loch had taken its toll on the treetops. The icy air hit Sejer and Skarre as soon as they got out of their car. In the hollow below they could see an old cottage. It was dilapidated, but it could be argued that it still retained a peculiar charm of its own. Some thriving, but untidy scrub grew along the walls and a fine layer of snow covered the grass surrounding the cottage.
'What do you think?' Sejer asked.
'Don't know yet,' said Skarre.
The men walked around the cottage until they found the entrance marked by two old wooden posts covered by dried hops. Sejer looked at the farm. He saw the old greenhouse with its broken windows, a stationary tractor and a black cat slinking through the snow. A Toyota Carina was parked inside a lean-to of corrugated iron next to the barn. It was well maintained for its age and it was white.
'He may or may not be in a wheelchair,' Sejer said, 'but he does drive a car. And why hasn't he had a ramp installed to his front door? How does he get up and down the steps?'
He turned to Skarre.
'Who were the officers who interviewed him the first time?'
'Don't know.'
Sejer looked towards the kitchen window. He could swear he detected movement behind the curtain, a face that quickly retreated. He went up the steps; nothing happened. He deliberately fumbled loudly with the door handle, then he waited, before knocking several times. Finally they heard noises from within. The door was opened slightly and a man peered out. The sharp light hit his face and caused him to squint. His hair was grey, almost straw-like, his skin was pallid and in dire need of some sunshine, as it had a bluish tint. He was sitting in a wheelchair, an older model, his hands resting on its wheels.
'Wilfred Brein?' Skarre asked.
The man scowled at them. His shirt, faded and worn, was hanging loosely outside his jeans. On his feet he wore brown leather slippers whose stitching was coming apart. But it was something else that caught Sejer's attention. The man's resemblance to Hans Christian Andersen was striking.
'Police,' Sejer said. 'We would like to come inside for a few minutes.'
Brein measured the men with his eyes. 'Why do you want to come inside?' he snarled. He kept his hands on the wheels as if, at any moment, he might reverse and slam the door.
'Just a routine visit,' Sejer assured him, 'in connection with a case we're working on. We have a few questions, it won't take long.'
Brein jutted out his chin. He clearly wanted to signal something, they were just not sure what because he looked so pathetic. Besides, there was something about his legs which aroused Sejer's suspicions. His thighs were muscular, they showed no sign of wastage.
'It's to do with a witness statement,' Sejer said. 'There's something we need to clear up.'
'A witness?' Brein said curtly. 'What do you mean witness?'
'Witnesses claim to have seen you in Linde Forest. On Sunday the fourth of September in the afternoon. They saw you as you passed the barrier. You were heading for your car. I know it's been a long time, but I'm asking you to think back.'
Brein's face became closed, his pallid cheeks turned hollow.
'I know it's difficult to remember after all this time, but might they be right?' Sejer asked.
Brein rolled his eyes theatrically.
'You're barking up the wrong tree completely,' he muttered. 'Haven't you got eyes in your head?' He banged his fists against the wheels of the chair.
'Please excuse me,' Sejer said, 'but I presume that you only use your wheelchair occasionally. And that you have better days when you can get about unaided. Given that you have also been seen in the ICA superstore, and furthermore you drive an old Toyota Carina. Which hasn't been adapted for wheelchair use. Or has it? Do you mind if I check?'
He nodded in the direction of the Toyota.
Brein grimaced. 'I walk with great difficulty,' he maintained.
Sejer nodded sympathetically. 'Precisely. But there are clearly exceptions. Perhaps the fourth of September was one of them, perhaps it was one of your better days and you went for a walk in Linde Forest.'
'I couldn't possibly go for a walk with this hip,' Brein said, placing a hand on his right hip and giving Sejer a look of suffering.
'It was crushed by a Volvo on a pedestrian crossing. The joint is stainless steel and it aches.'
'I see,' said Sejer, still being exquisitely polite. 'But there may have been something you needed to do up there?'
'Which case is this?' Brein asked. His eyes had become evasive now. They flickered around the farmyard, to the barn and the stationary tractor.
'Jonas August Lowe and Edwin Asalid,' Sejer said. 'We've appealed for you to come forward in the newspapers and on every TV channel, several times. To put it plainly, we've been looking for you for nearly four months.'
