Kristine thought back. She had got a good look at the man, she had looked him in the eye, and an image of his face had imprinted itself on her retina. She had flashed him a brief smile out of reflex politeness, a smile he had not returned. He had looked back at her in horror and he had certainly behaved in a suspicious manner, as if they had caught him red-handed. I didn't like him, she thought, the one second I looked him in the eye was enough to give me a feeling about him, and it was not a good one.
'How old was he?' Reinhardt said. 'What do you think, Kristine? Come on, we need to be ready.'
She thought carefully. 'Somewhere between forty and fifty,' she declared.
He wrinkled his nose with displeasure. 'We need to be more specific than that,' he stated. 'No, not as old as fifty.'
She made no reply. She, too, started pacing up and down the road, she circled their parked car. The sun shone off the silver Rover. Reinhardt made sure it was always washed and polished.
'I hope they get here soon,' she said.
'There'll be a whole army of them, Kristine, believe you me.'
She turned away from him and kept silent. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and chewed on a nail, a bad habit she had never managed to quit. Time had never passed so slowly, waiting had never felt like this. She could no longer enjoy the serenity of the forest, the susurration of the enormous treetops, the rustling leaves. She looked at Reinhardt for a long time. He was leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest.
'What the hell is taking them so long?' he snapped.
'It's the road,' she replied. 'It's in poor condition. You can't drive very fast on it.'
They spoke no more. In their minds they were back by the cluster of trees, with the little boy, and Kristine was suddenly glad about the way he lay. Face down in the moss. She had not seen his eyes. She stared along the road. Finally she heard a car. Reinhardt stubbed out his cigarette and straightened his back. It was as if he was getting ready for the performance of his life.
CHAPTER 5
A tall, grey-haired man led the solemn group. He walked with a characteristic spring in his step and made good use of his eyes; he watched Reinhardt and Kristine, he took in the surroundings. Behind him walked a younger man with an impressive head of blond curls.
'That took you long enough,' Reinhardt started off. 'I was the one who called you, my name's Ris, Reinhardt Ris. He's lying right by the clearing over there, by those trees. It's only a few minutes' walk.'
He turned and pointed in between the trees. 'Like I said, it's a small boy. He's lying face down, he's half naked. We're in complete shock. We come here every Sunday, we have done for many years, but little did we think that we would ever stumble across something like that and we don't know what's happened, but I must admit that I'm prepared for the worst, and I suppose you must be, too. He's not all that old, either, six or seven perhaps. Or what do you think, Kristine, is he as old as seven?'
Reinhardt's cascade of words ceased. The grey-haired man looked at him with narrow eyes, his handshake was crushing. He introduced himself as Konrad Sejer. While he shook Reinhardt's hand, he looked at Kristine and his face softened. She was relieved that someone was taking control. A feeling of embarrassment brought colour to her cheeks, she did not understand why, but it had something to do with his eyes and his presence.
'You both found him?' he asked.
'Reinhardt spotted him first,' Kristine said.
'Are you finding this hard?'
'Yes,' she admitted, 'it's hard.'
He nodded. 'It's good that there are two of you, it's easier when you've got someone to share it with.'
We haven't shared anything for ages, she thought despondently.
'We saw a man,' Reinhardt interjected. 'A man leaving, he was in a hurry. We passed him at the barrier; he drove off in a white car. He drove off at speed.'
Sejer's eyebrows lifted one millimetre; he rarely displayed stronger expressions than that. In the younger detective's face there was a hint of a smile as he became aware of Reinhardt's need for attention.
'We managed to get quite a few details,' Reinhardt said. 'We had only just parked, we walked past him at close range.'
Sejer nodded calmly.
Kristine started walking. She felt a resistance inside her and she dreaded it. The curly-haired detective came up to her, stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Jacob Skarre. He reminded her a bit of a gangly teenager with huge, bright blue eyes and curls that any girl would envy him. Behind him followed a group of crime scene officers carrying equipment needed at the scene of the murder. Or where they had found the body, Kristine thought. Without knowing why, she was absolutely certain that the boy had been killed elsewhere and later brought here by the killer. She thought about the man at the barrier and she shuddered as she recalled his disturbed eyes.
She sat on one of the logs as the crime scene officers started their painstaking work. She watched them as they carefully took their places. She was finally overcome by a sense of calm, now that everyone had a job to do she saw no signs of horror, only gravity. But as soon as she started to think about it, she was gripped by despair because the boy had parents, and they did not know yet. They might be sharing a joke right now. She could visualise them clearly in their living room, perhaps the sun was streaming in through the window. The image took her breath away.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Reinhardt's voice cutting through the silence, it was loud and self-assured. She was so fed up with his voice; she was mortified that he could not keep his mouth shut. The inspector and his colleague had both knelt down, shoulder by shoulder, in the heather. Now they would see what she had seen, the details which would reveal what had happened to the boy. Reinhardt suddenly came over to her. Perhaps they had told him to move back, she wondered, as she looked up.
'Have you realised something?' he asked, sitting down beside her.
'No,' she said in a drained voice.
'Something's missing.'
She gave him a perplexed look. 'What's that?'
'The press,' he said, as if he were an expert in these things.
Her eyes widened.
'Thank God for that,' she exclaimed.
'
He looked at her.
'You can't call them,' she said. 'You can't!'
'But for God's sake, think about it. They're going to be all over this story anyway.'
'Not if you keep your mouth shut.'
'This will be on the news by the evening,' he said, 'and that's only right and proper, in my opinion. People should be given the chance to protect their kids; that boy over there, he's only six or seven.'
She made no reply. Her lips had narrowed and she looked tormented.
'We need to go down to the station,' she whispered. 'We need to make a statement.'
'I know.'
'What if we remember it wrong? We mustn't say something unless we're sure.'
'You remember a little,' he said, 'and so do I. He won't get away with it.'
Kristine shook her head. 'He might just have been out for a walk,' she said. 'Like we were.'
Snorrason, the pathologist, rolled the boy on to his back. Now they could see his face and his half-open eyes.
'I've authorised overtime, Skarre,' Sejer said.
Skarre nodded grimly.
